


Something True

by GhyllWyne



Series: Something Broken [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst, BAMF Jared, BAMF John, Canon Compliant, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Emotional Hurt, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, John is Not Amused, M/M, Medical Realism, Missing Scene, Molly Hooper Knows, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Post-Episode: The Abominable Bride, Post-Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow, Post-Season/Series 03 Fix-It, Protective Mycroft, Series 04 speculation, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good, Something Borrowed, Something Broken, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-07
Updated: 2016-10-29
Packaged: 2018-05-18 17:34:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 16
Words: 66,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5936989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GhyllWyne/pseuds/GhyllWyne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Just how many second chances do you think we're going to get? What if this had really been the last?"</p>
<p>The strain is beginning to show on all of them. Mycroft is showing his heart. John is sitting at another bedside watching Sherlock hover on the brink, but this time it's more than his life at stake. Mary is sharing a secret with the most unlikely of confidantes. Changes are coming, and nothing will ever be the same.  </p>
<p>This story begins with Sherlock leaving at the end of HLV and returning at the end of TAB, and it's my take on where series four is headed. It's the third part of a triology, but it stands on its own.  Threads from Something Broken and Something Borrowed are included, but there is no requirement to read either of those before this one. If you haven't read those, I hope you enjoy this one enough to give them a look.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. "He's a really good friend."

**Author's Note:**

> Update 5 September 2016 
> 
> Please accept my apologies for the long wait. I've been working on the story for months now, but it just wasn't saying what I wanted it to say. So, I dumped about 20k words and started over. This is the result, and as much as I regret making you wait so long, I'm glad I waited until the story I wanted to tell finally appeared on the page.
> 
> There were aspects of series 03 that I loved, and a lot that I didn't. Not everything made sense. Not everything was what I would have wanted to see happen. This story starts at the end of HLV, and ignores the trailer that's been aired for series 04. This is purely my take on where Sherlock and John's relationship is headed. I hope you'll let me know what you think of my solution.
> 
> The entire story is complete, and I will be posting a chapter every week. The chapter count is still not finalized because I tend to change the chapter breaks during final beta. The chapter I'm posting today will be followed by another on Friday, and that will become my scheduled posting date.
> 
> Ghyll

Seven days ago, Sherlock had killed Magnussen in front of John's horrified eyes, in full view of a dozen armed witnesses. The last time John had seen him, Sherlock was being pushed into a police van in handcuffs. There had been a flurry of news reports the next day about an unidentified attacker who had killed the billionaire media magnate in his home, but no mention of Sherlock. A few days later, it all faded from the headlines as if nothing had ever happened. Even the CAM News outlets stopped talking about the way their founder had died, and focused instead on memorializing his achievements. How that feat had been accomplished, John could only guess, because Mycroft wasn't telling him a goddamn thing.

John had no idea what had happened to Sherlock. He had called Mycroft's personal mobile phone almost hourly for the first couple of days, but there had been no response, and John's worry was consuming him. He had tried working at the surgery, but couldn't focus on anything but his silent phone. He had quickly fallen into a pattern of going to bed with Mary, then getting up again as soon as she was asleep to slip downstairs and sit in his armchair, staring blindly at whatever was on telly until exhaustion closed his eyes. Last night, even that had failed him. Sometime after four a.m., he had given up and moved to the sofa to force himself to rest.

What felt like seconds later, he woke in daylight to the sound of Mary's voice and the gentle touch of her hand on his shoulder.

"John? Mycroft Holmes wants to talk to you."

He sat bolt upright, instantly awake, and nearly knocked Mary off balance as he swung his legs to the floor. He held one hand out for the phone, rubbing at his crusty eyes with the other.

"No, John. He's here." She glanced over her shoulder. Mycroft was standing stiffly on the other side of the room.

He could think of only one reason for Mycroft to be here in person, and his chest went cold with dread. "What's happened?"

Mycroft looked pained at his question. John felt Mary's hand return to his shoulder and squeeze. It had the opposite effect from the comfort she'd meant to offer because it told him she knew what was coming. He took a shaky breath. "Mycroft, where is Sherlock?"

Mycroft and Mary exchanged a look. Something passed between them, and confirmed his impression. She knows, and it's bad. "I'll be out here, if you need me." She went into the kitchen and closed the door.

Mycroft walked to the armchair next to the sofa and sat down. "Nothing has happened to Sherlock. He wanted me to tell you that he's fine."

All of the tension of the past week, the helpless, unrelenting anguish, coalesced into a dark fury that threatened to overwhelm him. "Seven fucking days without a word, and you show up here to tell me he's fine? What kind of an idiot do you think I am?" He held up a hand. "No, don't bother. You've always made that crystal clear, and right now, I couldn't care less about your bloody opinion of me. I need to see Sherlock. Today."

"That is precisely why I'm here. I will be sending a car for you later this afternoon. He wants to tell you goodbye."

John's mouth went dry. "What do you mean, 'goodbye'?"

"There won't be a court case. I've called in a favor, and he's to be exiled instead. Permanently. You won't see him after this. None of us will. It was his choice, John. You must abide by it."

Mycroft's calm certainty flipped the switch, and John's control was gone. "Like hell, I will! Don't tell me there's nothing you can do! Call in a better favor, for Christ's sake! Say he was temporarily insane, which has to be the truth anyway. He killed a man in front of armed witnesses. If that's not insanity, I don't know what would be. You can't let him do this." He ducked his head and closed his eyes, breathing hard to dissipate the rush of adrenaline that was making his hands clench into fists. When he looked up, Mycroft was watching him calmly, one eyebrow lifted at his emotional outburst. It reminded him so much of Sherlock that he wanted to scream.

"John, you know as well as I do that prison would kill him as surely as an executioner's noose, but much more painfully. This way, he will be able to work. It's the best we can do."

John shook his head, jabbing a finger a foot from Mycroft's face. "It's not even close to the best you can do, and you know it. You're the British Government, for fuck's sake. You can't let this happen. This is my fault. Tell them it was my fault. I'll tell them it was my fault. I put him up to it. I--" He broke off and took a breath. "It was my gun. I should have known. I should have..." The list of his failures was endless. 

"Making yourself culpable would serve only to render my brother's sacrifice pointless. The car will be here at three o'clock to take you to the airstrip. Pull yourself together, John. Do it for Sherlock. He doesn't have a choice, and neither do you. Don't make it harder for him than it already is."

John felt the anger drain away. "You can't let this happen." He barely recognized his own voice.

Mycroft stood up. "There's nothing I can do. The car will be here at three." He turned and walked out of the house.

A moment later, Mary came out of the kitchen. "John, are you alright?"

He didn't look at her. She didn't need to see what he knew had to be in his eyes. "I'm fine." It might be the biggest lie he had ever told.

* * * * *

Mary waited until she heard the shower running before she took out the untraceable phone that had been hidden away for more than five years. The one she had nearly thrown away a year ago because the life she had found with John had lulled her into believing that the past would never touch her again. She was about to destroy her last cover identity, but the alternative was unthinkable.

Mycroft had called her before he'd arrived this morning, and told her what Sherlock's exile would mean. It was a suicide mission, and Sherlock knew it. She had felt her heart break for John. For all of them. "You can't tell John."

"I don't intend to. I'm telling you because you need to know what is coming. John will require all the support you can provide when the inevitable happens. Telling him the truth now would be... counterproductive." Mycroft had exhaled audibly. "And I want you to know that our arrangement is nullified, for obvious reasons." 

Their arrangement had been forged in Mycroft's sedan parked in front of the hospital the morning after she had nearly killed Sherlock in Magnussen's office. She had agreed to use her skills to protect Sherlock, and to keep Mycroft informed of his brother's activities. Her position in Sherlock's inner circle would give her access that he had admitted his surveillance had consistently failed to achieve. 

Mycroft's part of the bargain had been a guarantee of safety for as long as she complied, and to promise that the consequences of failure would be swift and inescapable. 

His voice over the phone had softened. "Sherlock has secured your freedom at a cost you can never repay. I do hope you will make the most of the life he's given back to you."

She had been unable to speak. A moment later, Mycroft had ended the call. Five minutes later, he had arrived at her door to talk to John.

She could not allow this to happen. The person she was about to contact would be bound to reveal that he had heard from her. It would only be a matter of time before they found her. She would deal with the consequences later. Right now, she had one goal in mind. Keep Sherlock from being sent away. Whatever it would cost her came a distant second to keeping John from that kind of pain. Mycroft was right. If John lost Sherlock again, not even she would be able to save him.

John had given her the idea. He told her that Sherlock had shot Magnussen in the head in front of twenty armed witnesses, all of them law enforcement officers of one type or another. 

_"Mary, there's no way out of it. Not even Mycroft can help him now. He might just as well have invited a news crew to broadcast it live. Let the whole bloody country watch."_

She dialed the number and waited for the international call to connect. She needed to create a threat that was dangerous to the entire country. One that was immediately visible to everyone at the same time, and one that Sherlock was uniquely suited to address. There was very little time to set it up, but she knew someone who could do it. And it needed to happen before that plane took off.

* * * * *

Mycroft was doing his best to follow the advice he'd given John Watson a few hours ago, but it was proving to be more difficult than he had ever imagined. He was driving his own brother to his execution. At some point in the next six months, Sherlock would die. The mission he would be undertaking made that outcome a virtual certainty. And he would die alone.

Sherlock was quiet, sitting against the door as far from Mycroft as he could manage. Looking out at the passing countryside, and surely seeing none of it.

They had spent the past twelve hours tying up loose ends. Sherlock had updated his will, leaving everything to John and his child. There would be the matter of proving Sherlock's death, which could be difficult. Sherlock had insisted that Mycroft make every effort to have his body found and returned to England. He wanted John to have proof this time. John would be shocked by the value of Sherlock's estate. It had all been placed into trusts to keep him from using it for drugs, long past the point where that had been necessary. Sherlock simply didn't care about the money. It amounted to more than three million pounds at this point. John's family would be well cared for. Mycroft had casually suggested that the will be amended to include the child, and Sherlock had agreed without asking why. Mycroft would not have been able to tell him the reason, if he had. Sherlock did not need to know that he doubted John would survive him by more than a few months, if that.

Mycroft had told his brother that he'd gone to see John, but he'd omitted how upset John had been. Sherlock certainly knew that John would be affected by this, but he had never understood how much John actually cared about him. That was a blessing now.

He had tried for most of Sherlock's life to protect him from the consequences of emotional involvement and the dangerous vulnerability that came with it. He had succeeded quite well until John Watson entered the equation. In retrospect, Mycroft could clearly trace the path of destruction to its origin, and see his own hand in letting it happen. There had been warnings, and he had ignored them all. He had allowed himself to feel gratitude for Watson having saved Sherlock's life, when what he should have done was recognize the reason Sherlock had taken such a risk. Mycroft believed Sherlock's attempt to take down Jeff Hope alone had, for the first time, been about wanting another human being's approval. John Watson was the only person who had ever honestly admired Sherlock's abilities. He had become, over those first few days, the only person in the world whose opinion seemed to matter to Sherlock. Every decision Sherlock would make from that moment on would be influenced by how it might affect John, or John's opinion of him. Murdering Charles Magnussen had been Sherlock's ultimate sacrifice for John's safety, which included the safety of his wife and child. He had traded the rest of his life for John's, and there was nothing Mycroft could do now to change it. The knowledge that he had failed his brother so completely would torture him for the rest of his days.

"There is a point where guilt becomes self-indulgence. You're not omnipotent, Mycroft. Get over it."

Mycroft looked over at Sherlock, slightly startled to hear his voice. He was still looking at the window. "This from the man who threw his life away for a friend." 

Sherlock turned to look at him then. He smiled. "He's a really good friend."

The deep emotion in his brother's eyes stunned him. That Sherlock was allowing him to see it said just how close to the brink he truly was. "Letting down your guard now is the worst possible thing you could do to John."

Sherlock turned back to the window. "I don't know what you're talking about." 

"Yes, you do."

Sherlock rested his head against the window and closed his eyes.

Mycroft watched his brother silently. Time was running out, and there was so much he wanted to say. He cleared his throat softly, testing his voice. "Sherlock." He waited until Sherlock met his gaze. "I need you to tell me clearly that this is truly what you want. We could still go back and take our chances with the legal process. You might even find a jury who would understand. Prison for a time--"

"No." Sherlock turned and locked his gaze with Mycroft's. "This is the way it was always going to end. It's what I want now."

Realization hit Mycroft like a physical blow. "You expected to be killed when you pulled that trigger."

Sherlock's smile was chilling. "Your men have alarmingly slow reflexes. You might want to consider a refresher course in tactical response."

John was wrong. It had not been an act of insanity. It was surrender. Whatever hope he'd had that Sherlock would somehow manage to prove him wrong and come out of this mission alive had just evaporated. He didn't want to come out of it alive. He never had.

"Sherlock, I--"

"Don't. Just leave it, Mycroft. It's over."

They reached the plane ten minutes before John's car arrived. Mycroft watched Sherlock's entire demeanor change when John stepped out of the car. It was the last time he would see his brother smile, and it shattered his heart.

* * * * *

When John came out of the shower, he found that Mary had laid out his clothes for him. She had meant it as a kindness, but it felt like a slap. It made him realize how pathetic he must seem to her now, and it gave back him the clarity he had lost the instant Sherlock's bullet had shattered Magnussen's skull. He took hold of the guilt that was paralyzing him and redirected it. Anger was harder to control, but it got his brain moving again. Nothing that had happened made sense to him, and he now had very little time to figure it out.

Sherlock had killed Magnussen because he'd run out of options. Mycroft had let him be arrested because he needed time to devise a proper response, one that he could hardly have been expected to come up with in the immediate aftermath. Witnessing his brother commit murder had to have affected even Mycroft's unflappable thought processes. He had told John this morning that there was only one option open to them, and there was nothing he could do to change that. John hadn't believed him, but he was beginning to wonder if Sherlock had fooled them both.

This would hardly be the first time Sherlock had withheld a plan from him. It wouldn't even be the first time he'd disappeared 'forever'. So there was every reason to believe that the same thing was happening now.

Even if Sherlock had wanted to tell him what was going on, when would he have been able to do it? He had been in custody, or under Mycroft's watchful eye, since it happened. This afternoon's meeting would be his first chance to let John in on it. Sherlock would pull him aside and tell him what to do, and this nightmare would end.

By the time Mycroft's car delivered them to the airstrip, John was so convinced that this was a ruse that he was rehearsing in his head how best to tell Sherlock what a bastard he was for putting him through this again.

The car pulled up on the tarmac a few paces from where Sherlock was standing next to Mycroft. John got out and walked around the car to join his wife. Suddenly he was in no hurry to move any closer, and he stopped at Mary's side. Something in Sherlock's posture seemed too controlled. Too formal. He hesitated.

Mary didn't wait for him. She headed straight for Sherlock and wrapped him in a hug. That almost made John smile. Sherlock hugged her back, and that did make him smile. The two people he loved most in the world, sharing a good bye hug.

 _No. Not good bye._ John squared his shoulders and lifted his chin. He walked over to join them.

Mary kissed Sherlock's cheek, and he kissed her back. They exchanged a few words that made them both smile, but their expressions sobered as soon as they broke contact. Mary came back to John's side and took his hand.

Sherlock turned to his brother. "Since this is likely to be the last conversation I’ll have with John Watson, would you mind if we took a moment?"

Mary and Mycroft walked away, and Sherlock looked directly at him for the first time. There was something in Sherlock's gaze that made John want to look elsewhere. Both of them seemed suddenly awkward, and it made John's certainty waver a bit.

The silence was unbearable. John took a breath. "So, here we are." _Come on, give me a clue._

"William Sherlock Scott Holmes."

For some reason, John's brain supplied an unhelpful memory. U.M.Q.R.A. As clues went, what Sherlock had just said was equally cryptic. "Sorry?"

"That's the whole of it. If you were looking for baby names."

John suppressed an impulse to give his head a clearing shake. It was so far from what he was expecting that he chuckled. "We've had a scan. We're pretty sure it's a girl."

Sherlock smiled. "Oh. Okay."

John glanced at Mycroft and Mary, wondering if they were still too close for Sherlock to be able to speak freely. They could start walking, but Mycroft would probably tackle them. The silence stretched, increasing the tension. John cleared his throat. "Actually, I can't think of a single thing to say." _Because it's your bloody turn. Tell me what to do._

Sherlock dropped his gaze. "No, neither can I."

They were running out of time. John stepped closer and lowered his voice. "The game is over." _There's your opening. Get on with it, for God's sake._

Sherlock's gaze came up and fixed on his. "The game is never over, John."

 _Thank Christ. Now tell me what to do._ Even in his head, it was starting to take on an edge of desperation that was making his heart pound.

"But there may be some new players now. That’s okay. The East Wind takes us all in the end," Sherlock continued the thought.

John asked him what he was talking about, but he barely listened to the answer. He was busy regrouping. Obviously, there was not going to be a daring escape here. Not with Mycroft hovering nearby. John gave himself a mental slap for not thinking this through. It must be something that would take place after the plane took off. Maybe an unscheduled landing. Sherlock would contact him then, and--

"He was a rubbish big brother." Sherlock glanced at Mycroft.

He really, really needed to get confirmation of some kind. "So what about you, then. Where are you actually going now?"

"Oh, some undercover work in Eastern Europe."

John recognized the exaggeratedly bored tone, and his heart rate kicked up. "For how long?"

"Six months, my brother estimates. He's never wrong." Flat. No eye contact.

"And then what?" _Lying. Why is he still holding to this story?_

There was real pain in Sherlock's eyes in the seconds before he looked up to break contact. "Who knows?" His lips were pressed tight.

_No. Don't._

"John, there’s something I should say. I-I’ve meant to say always and never have. Since it’s unlikely we’ll ever meet again, I might as well say it now."

Sherlock held his gaze for a moment, then looked down. John blew out a shaky breath, and Sherlock pulled one in. Maybe the same one.

"Sherlock is actually a girl's name." He smiled at his own joke.

John chuckled softly at his own stupidity. Said the most neutral thing he could come up with. "We're not naming our daughter after you."

In the end, it didn't matter what words they used. John had seen it all in his eyes, and there was no longer any question that it was the truth. Sherlock knew he wasn't coming back, and now John knew it, too.

_This is the way the world ends._

He couldn't imagine five minutes from now, let alone the weeks that remained before his daughter would enter a world that would no longer include the man standing in front of him. She would never know him, or what he'd meant to her father. No matter what he told her, she could never understand.

And then Sherlock was holding out his hand. The only other time they had done this was in front of Baker Street, the first time.

_"We don't know a thing about each other. I don't even know your name."_

_"Mr. Holmes."_

_"Sherlock. Please."_

And suddenly, all of the memories were there, flooding his mind and blocking out what was happening in front of him.

"To the very best of times."

Sherlock was still offering his hand. John took it, and held on.

_When I let go of his hand, it's over._

Sherlock gave his hand one final squeeze, and let go. He turned and walked to the plane, mounted the steps, and disappeared. He never looked back.

John stood there with the world crashing down around him. Mary came to his side and took his hand, then pulled him to the edge of the tarmac. Mycroft got into his car, and the plane lifted off.

"John, it's time to go home."

_Home just left on a jet to nowhere._

It had been right in front of him all along. Sherlock was right. He truly was an idiot. A blind idiot. And he had just wasted his last chance.

_As always, John, you see but you don't observe._

He wondered how long it would take before Mary realized that she was left with an empty husk. Welcome to the world, little daughter. Your parents are a semi-reformed assassin and a hollow shell. Happy birthday.

"I want to talk to Mycroft." He wanted the violin. And the skull. And his heart back. He wondered if Mycroft still had any part of his own.

But before they reached the car, Mycroft was getting out, and the expression on his face stopped John dead in his tracks. "What's happened?"

He heard only the first few words. Moriarty was alive. Apparently. Mary asked him how that could be, and he said something back that he would never be able to remember. His entire focus was the plane in the distance, coming closer. Coming back. The rush of emotion made him dizzy. Exhilaration. Relief like nothing he'd felt since the last near miss, but this was nearer than anything that had gone before. The impossibility of Moriarty actually coming back to wreak havoc was barely a footnote. John would never again let Sherlock face him alone. Not Moriarty. Not anyone.

The plane was on the tarmac. Gliding past them to the other end of the strip. Turning around and coming back to where it had been ten minutes before. As if nothing had ever happened.

The flight attendant opened the door and lowered the stairs, then stepped back out of sight. Less than a minute later, he reappeared, caught Mycroft's eye, and beckoned with some urgency. 

They found Sherlock still buckled into his seat looking agitated. And a little glassy-eyed, the more John looked at him.

And obviously far less pleased to be back than John was to have him back. If anything, he seemed royally pissed. What he was saying made no sense, as Mary quickly pointed out. Something about solving a cold case from a hundred years ago that would somehow explain Moriarty's return. He had been immersed in his Mind Palace and nearly had the answer before he was so rudely interrupted.

Mary sat down in the seat facing Sherlock and picked up a mobile phone from the ledge. She read the screen for a few seconds. "You've been reading John's blog. The story of how you met." She smiled at both of them.

It sidetracked Sherlock for a moment. "Helps me if I see myself through his eyes sometimes. I'm so much cleverer."

Of course Sherlock would mask the only positive thing he'd ever said about the much-maligned blog with a purely practical explanation. But John heard the sentiment behind it, and ducked his head to hide his reaction.

Mycroft sat down across the aisle from Mary, watching his brother with an increasingly grim expression. Suddenly, he was as angry as John had ever seen him. He demanded a list of everything Sherlock had taken, and John jumped instantly to Sherlock's defense. He had seen Sherlock do this hundreds of times, go into his Mind Palace and come up with the solution to a problem that no one else could ever have imagined. Mycroft was wrong. It couldn't be drugs because of course if Sherlock was on drugs now and John had missed it, what else had slipped his notice while they were living under the same bloody roof for the past four months?

Sherlock produced a folded sheet of paper and tossed it in Mycroft's general direction. John bent down and picked it up. In Sherlock's familiar handwriting, neatly laid out in practical bullet points, were drugs, dosages, and times. Heroin. Ketamine. LSD. Cocaine. Shock dropped John into the nearest seat. He looked at Mycroft. "He couldn't have taken all that in the past five minutes."

Mycroft looked at Sherlock. "He was high before he got on the plane."

"Didn't seem high," Mary said without looking up from her phone. She had started typing furiously into it midway through Sherlock's rant.

"No one deceives like an addict." Mycroft directed this to Sherlock who rolled his eyes.

"I'm not an addict, I'm a user. I alleviate boredom, and occasionally heighten my thought processes."

Sherlock dismissing what he'd done as both inconsequential and routine sent John over the edge. "This could kill you! You could die!"

"Controlled usage is not usually fatal, and abstinence is not immortality."

John stared at him in stunned disbelief. Could Sherlock really think so little of his own life that he would risk it on a virtual coin toss? _Not usually fatal_. As if the outcome didn't matter. 

He could hear Mycroft and Mary talking about what she was finding on her phone, but John was suddenly focused on trying to assess Sherlock's status without getting right in his face and doing a full evaluation. It would probably come to that shortly, but John's brain was struggling to right itself in the face of the incomprehensible. He looked down at the list he was still holding. If Sherlock had really taken all of this, even over the past hour, let alone the past ten minutes, he was in serious danger. They should be calling an ambulance before it all caught up with him. They--

"John, he's out." Mary position in the seat facing Sherlock gave her the best view of Sherlock's face. She was on her feet, shaking him by the shoulder and calling his name.

John was leaning over him, two fingers on his carotid pulse. It was strong, if a bit fast. "Count his breaths," but Mary was ahead of him, her palm against his chest.

"Twelve," she said a moment later. "His color is good. I think he--" 

Sherlock abruptly pulled in a sharp breath and startled both of them into pulling back. He opened his eyes, and they were even more glassy than before. His wobbly gaze focused vaguely on Mary, then up at Mycroft. When his head turned lazily to the left, he saw John and smiled. "Miss me?"

"Sherlock, are you alright?" Alarm tightened John's grip on the seatback because the answer was obvious.

The smile turned to an irritated smirk. "Yes, of course I am. Why wouldn't I be?"

Mary spoke for them all. "Because you've probably just OD'd. You should be in hospital."

"No time." Sherlock got woozily to his feet and side-stepped into the aisle. "I have to go to Baker Street now. Moriarty's back." He gave an imperious sniff, and started to push past Mycroft. 

Mycroft showed no inclination to let him through. "I almost hope he is, if it will save you from this." He held up the note.

Sherlock scowled and snatched the note from Mycroft's hand, then ripped it in half twice and let the pieces fall to the floor. "No need for that now. Got the real thing. I have work to do." He tried again to get around his brother.

The short bursts of words were not like Sherlock at all, and John's alarm kicked up another notch.

Mycroft held his ground. "Promise me, Sherlock."

Sherlock pulled back and blinked at him. "What are you still doing here? Shouldn't you be off somewhere getting me a pardon or something? Like a proper big brother?" He pushed past and headed for the door with Mary on his heels.

John glanced at Mycroft, but the pain in the man's eyes made it a very brief glance. He had never imagined he could feel pity for the imperious British Government but at this moment, Mycroft Holmes was simply a human being who was hurting badly and making no attempt to hide it. A burst of empathy, and shame for the way Sherlock was treating his brother, put a painful tightness in his throat.

Mycroft stepped aside to let him pass, then called his name as he reached the door. John turned.

"Look after him. Please?"

All he could manage was a nod.

He caught up to Sherlock at the car. 

"Hang on. Explain. Moriarty's alive?"

Sherlock turned around, pulling on his gloves. "I didn't say he was alive. I said he was back."

"So, he's dead?" Mary asked.

"Of course, he's dead. He blew his own brains out. No one survives that. I just went to the trouble of an overdose to prove it." He had the decency to shoot a guilty look in John's direction, then followed it with a small smile. "Moriarty is dead. No question. But more importantly, I know exactly what he's going to do next." He walked briskly around the car, heading for the passenger door which was standing open.

John slid into the back with Sherlock, and Mary got in front with the driver. She turned in her seat to look at John, clearly transmitting concern. Sherlock's burst of lucidity was too abrupt a change in too short a time. It was not likely to be the end of it.

The car barely made it to the end of the tarmac before it happened. Sherlock turned toward John with a look of growing confusion. "John?" His eyes unfocused, rolled back, and closed. An instant later, he went completely limp and fell sideways into John's shoulder.

"Stop the car!" Mary and John shouted it almost at the same instant, and the tires screeched on the tarmac throwing all of them forward. Sherlock would have fallen to the floor if John hadn't grabbed him.

John opened the door and got out, grabbing Sherlock under his arms and pulling him flat on the seat while Mary opened the door on the opposite side and leaned in to help.

"Call Mycroft," John barked, feeling Sherlock's carotid racing under his fingers. He bent down and put his ear against Sherlock's chest to listen to his breathing and his pounding heart. 

Mycroft's car pulled up next to them a moment later. He came quickly to Mary's side and bent down to talk to John. "I have a kit in my car. Naloxone. Do you need it?"

John checked Sherlock's eyes. The pupils were constricted to pinpoints now, unmistakable evidence of an opiate overdose. "Christ yes." When Mycroft came back with the kit, John snatched it from his hand. "Call an ambulance. He's in serious trouble." 

Finding a usable vein wasn't easy. John took a syringe from the kit, pulled the cap from the needle with his teeth, and spat it on the floor. Sherlock's pulse was rapid and thready now, and his respiration was falling. "You're an idiot," he hissed as he injected the Naloxone then dropped the used syringe on the floor. "A bloody idiot. If you die on me, I will kill you." He glanced up at Mary and found her looking at her watch, timing the injection response.

"Two minutes," she said, just as Sherlock began to move his head from side to side.

John leaned down until his lips were almost touching Sherlock's ear. "Sherlock, look at me. Open your eyes." 

Mycroft made a short, staccato call, then informed John, "Air ambulance. Ten minutes."

"Sherlock, it's John. Look at me." He put two fingers on the carotid pulse and found it stronger, but still too fast. "Sherlock, goddammit look at me."

Sherlock's eyelids fluttered. Opened. Gazed dreamily up at the car's headliner. "John." He smile faintly, and his eyes started to close.

The naloxone should have sent him into instant withdrawal. There was clearly more than heroin at work here. John took hold of his shoulders and squeezed hard. "No, stay awake. The ambulance will be here any minute. You have to stay awake."

A wisp of a smile, and a voice that was alarmingly frail, "Can't."

He was out again. John grabbed the kit from the back window ledge and extracted a second syringe, cursing softly under his breath as he searched for a place to stick it.

An eternity later, Sherlock looked up at him again. 

"Keep your eyes open." It was less an order than a prayer.

By the time the red HEMS helicopter landed, he'd already had to give a third injection, and Sherlock was awake enough to argue the need for assistance.

"Fine." He made a totally uncoordinated attempt to sit up.

John pressed him back down with one hand. "You're nowhere close to fine." So far from it, in fact, that it was scaring the hell out of him.

The medics rolled the trolley up to the car and wasted no time getting Sherlock strapped onto it as John gave them a quick report of their patient's condition. "I'm coming with you." He glanced back at Mary and Mycroft.

"We'll follow in my car." 

The pilot called back to John as they lifted off. "Fifteen minutes."

It took several attempts in both arms before they could find a vein to get a cannula into him. John winced at the tell-tale track marks and wondered how on earth he could have been so fucking blind. The medics had to give Sherlock another two doses of naloxone before they landed on the helipad at Royal London. Sherlock was awake enough to make it clear that he didn't want to go wherever they were taking him, but he was already fading out again.

He tried to sit up on the stretcher as they were wheeling him into the building.

"You're not going anywhere. Lie still," was all John could get out through clenched teeth as he pushed him back onto the trolley. The idiocy of what the man had done to himself was incomprehensible.

When they reached the resuscitation room, John waited as the helicopter medics handed over their patient, and Sherlock was being slid from the ambulance trolley to the resus room trolley before he gave the doctor his own report. 

The doctor frowned at his patient. "He has a history of substance abuse?" He raised an eyebrow at John. Of course, Sherlock looked nothing like a typical junkie, if there even was such a thing anymore.

"Yes." The healed, and fresh, track marks would soon make that obvious.

John stood back, out of the way while the orchestrated chaos played out before him. Reaction was starting to set in, and his knees felt distinctly untrustworthy. He could hear what was being said, but he refused to believe it.

You're quite practiced at that, John. Refusing to accept the obvious.

Familiar terms were being shouted out by the medical team which John's brain was struggling to process. 'Type 2 respiratory failure, RSI, rocuronium, hypotension, VT, and then the familiar beep beep beep of a charging defib and the 'stand clear' that came before the shock that John's body reacted to with a jolt of adrenaline he did not need.

"Sir, you'll have to step out of the room."

John kept his eyes on Sherlock for as long as he could, then pushed through the doors and walked numbly out into the hall. 

When Mycroft and Mary rushed in thirty minutes later, they found him leaning against the wall in the A&E lobby, facing the door.

Mary put her hands on his shoulders. "John, how is he?"

Mycroft was standing behind her, and John addressed his response to him. "He went into VTach a few minutes after we got here. They had to shock him twice to break him out of it." 

"But he's alive," Mycroft said quietly.

John looked at him. "Yeah, he's alive. What shape he'll be in if he manages to stay that way is anybody's guess."

***

End of chapter one


	2. "Make him believe you."

* * *

Mycroft went in to see Sherlock first, leaving John and Mary to wait outside the ITU double doors. John's attention was riveted on a narrow slice of the nurses' station visible through the small window in the right hand door. Mary's attention was fixed on John.

She hated seeing him like this, but not just because he had already suffered enough for a lifetime. There was a purely selfish element involved. She had only just got him back, and he was being pulled away from her by the only force on earth that could do it. His entire focus was on Sherlock now, terrified that he was about to lose him again. It made her want to go in there herself and slap the selfish idiot out of his coma to explain in terms he would finally grasp that he must stop doing this. Maybe it was true that Sherlock wasn't able to anticipate the impact his actions would have on the people who loved him, but he could damn well see the aftermath. How many times did he think he could put John through this without killing him?

It was easier to rail at Sherlock's sins than to look honestly at her own. John deserved better than either of them had ever given him. That had to change.

She touched his shoulder, and he finally tore his gaze from the window to look at her. She slipped her arm around his waist. "John, he's not going to die."

He shook his head and looked down at the floor. "You don't know that." His voice showed the strain that his stoic expression was hiding from everyone but her.

She tipped her head against his, and closed her eyes. He didn't pull away, but she felt him turn his head to resume watching the door.

Mycroft was staying with Sherlock much longer than they had expected. There was a small waiting area directly across from the ITU, and she persuaded John to sit, using her pregnancy as a very legitimate excuse. Standing for long periods was hell on her legs. Mycroft came through the doors a moment later, and John was back on his feet. She hauled herself upright to stand at his side.

"The combination of drugs seems to be complicating the situation." Mycroft's seamless calm was back in place, but she wasn't fooled. The deeply worried brother who had ridden with her from the airstrip was still there in his eyes.

"I need to talk to the doctor." John was leaning to his right, trying to see around Mycroft who was now blocking his view of the only place John wanted to be.

"Margaret Lawson. Yes, she's waiting to speak to you." He glanced at his watch. "I will have to leave shortly. As you can imagine, there are a number of loose ends that need tying up." Mycroft stepped aside, and John went to the doors and pushed through without another word.

Mycroft turned to her. "I wanted to speak with you privately. Can you spare me a few minutes?"

"Of course." She resumed her seat, and Mycroft took the chair that John had occupied for such a short time. "What is it?"

Mycroft pursed his lips, his gaze briefly unfocused. "I know that you were responsible for James Moriarty's unexpected resurrection, and I know what it will cost you. What I do not know is why you did it."

She automatically donned an expression of surprised innocence which he immediately waved aside.

"Please do not insult my intelligence, Mrs. Watson. There are very few people who were aware that Sherlock was being sent to his death, and even fewer who possess the ability to arrange such a diversion to stop it. It was you, and I want to know why."

She had expected him to put the pieces together, just not this quickly. "You know what it would have done to John. You told me as much this morning. Can you truly say you're surprised that I would do anything to save him from that?"

Mycroft studied her for a moment. "And what of the enemies to whom you have no doubt revealed your identity? You are putting yourself and your child in peril. What do you think it would do to your husband if he knew what you have risked on his behalf? Without his knowledge or consent?"

Until this moment, she would not have considered answering that question honestly, least of all to the ruthless manipulator she had always believed Mycroft to be. But the version of himself that he had revealed to them today just might understand. "Sherlock was everything to John, and then he jumped off a roof in front of him. I saw what that did to him. I know he loves me, but not even that would have kept him safe if he had lost Sherlock again. I would do anything to keep him safe. I did the only thing I could to make that happen."

Mycroft nodded as if she had just confirmed his theory. "How do you plan to avoid the consequences of this decision?"

She smiled. "I was hoping you might be able to suggest something."

"I suspected as much. And are you prepared to sever all ties to John, and to everyone else you know, forever? Do you think John will permit it?"

Her smile vanished. "He would do anything to keep our child from harm. Not even round the clock security would be enough. Not with the people who will be after me. He will understand. Eventually." _But he will never forgive. Not this._

Mycroft seemed to read her mind. "He won't forgive you. And he won't forgive himself if he ever discovers that you did it because you thought him too weak to deal with losing his friend."

She frowned at him in surprise. "If you still believe that Sherlock is just John's friend, then you don't really know either of them."

He lifted an eyebrow. "Are you suggesting that they're lovers?"

"No. But it wouldn't matter. They couldn't be any more important to each other than they already are." She had accepted that fact long before Sherlock came back. "I am prepared to accept the consequences of what I've done. Are you going to help me?"

Mycroft pulled gloves from his pocket and began to put them on. "I will do whatever is necessary to protect Sherlock. By extension, that includes John, you, and your child." He stood up. "You must not tell either of them that you engineered the video. We will arrange a plausible threat from the outside that will suffice. It will be easy for both of them to believe that your enemies have found you because of some failsafe that Magnussen put in place against one of his targets taking revenge. But it will all be in vain if you let John and Sherlock know that you have sacrificed yourself for them."

She had already considered that option. Hearing Mycroft express the same concern made it easier somehow. "I will tell them whatever you want me to."

"I will be in touch." He turned and walked to the elevator, tapping his umbrella on the floor with every other step.

So, that was it. The wheels were truly in motion, and there was no going back. Not that there ever had been. 

* * *

Doctor Margaret Lawson was nearly as tall as Sherlock, fiftyish, with close cropped brown hair. She reminded him of a stern taskmaster he had trained under at Bart's whose name he had intentionally forgotten. He introduced himself, and she got straight to the point. "The combination of drugs is an unfortunate complication. He has a history of substance abuse?"

"He was clean for years. This is a recent development."

"Do you think that he may have been attempting suicide?"

It was a perfectly reasonable question, but that didn't make it any easier to hear. The flood of images and emotions it dredged up silenced him for a few seconds. "It was an accident."

She studied him closely for a moment. "He will have to be evaluated before we can release him. For his own protection."

 _Good luck with that._ "Of course."

She gave him her treatment plan and Sherlock's prognosis with clinical efficiency. They would keep him sedated on a propofol infusion until his heart rate and blood pressure stabilized. At that point, they would stop the sedation to see if he would wake up. If all went according to plan, they would cut back on the ventilator support to see if he would start breathing on his own. Once he was awake and off the ventilator, he would be kept under observation for another 24 hours. His brain function was the real question mark. Hypoxia from his opiate-depressed respiration could have damaged his brain. The drugs could have damaged his brain. There was no way to know until he woke up.

Dr. Lawson continued, "We've been asked to keep him in one of the private rooms for security, and there is a guard posted outside the door. This is in addition to the special permission we've already granted in allowing you to remain with him. A nurse has been assigned to him for as long as he is intubated, and she will be in the room with you. Do you have any questions?"

None of what she'd said had come as a surprise, including the guard. "No. Thank you. Can I see him now?"

"Yes, of course." Lawson led him to a closed door at the far end of the ten-bed open room. The private ITU rooms were situated at either end of the open area and were reserved for patients with contagious illnesses, and those who required special security. There was a suited man standing next to Sherlock's door sporting the requisite coiled wire running from his right ear to a transmitter tucked into his jacket. Not hospital security, obviously. One of Mycroft's men.

Lawson left him at the door. He nodded to the guard, and went in.

As promised, there was a young woman in blue scrubs seated at a waist-high workstation, typing into a laptop. She smiled at him, then returned to her task.

He walked to Sherlock's bedside with a strong sense of deja vu. The ventilator's steady rhythm, the beeping monitors, the too-still form under the light blanket, were sadly familiar. No bullet in the chest this time, which of course reminded him that Mary was waiting for word outside.

"I'll be right back," he told the nurse, then turned and left the room.

He found Mary sitting exactly where he had left her. She got quickly to her feet when he came through the doors.

"How is he?"

He told her what he knew so far. "It's going to be hours before we know anything more. You need to go home and rest. There's no point in you sitting out here. I'll call you in the morning with an update."

She hugged him and held on, her cheek pressed to his. "You'll call me the moment there's any change. If you wait until morning, I won't sleep a wink."

He took her shoulders and gently pushed her back so he could see her face. "The baby needs rest, too. Get in bed and go to sleep. I promise to call you with anything that can't wait, but otherwise it will be morning."

He walked with her down to the main lobby and waited until she was safely in a cab, then hurried back to Sherlock.

His gaze went automatically to the monitor readouts, and then he noticed the chair that had been placed next to the bed while he was gone.

"There are recliners and a sofa in the family waiting room, Dr. Watson, if you need a break." The nurse smiled at him over her monitor screen. "And a coffee machine."

"Thank you." He settled into the chair and spent the next two hours switching between watching Sherlock, checking the monitor readouts, and trying unsuccessfully to stop his imagination from running an endless loop of worst case scenarios.

Sherlock's breathing had been depressed, but it hadn't stopped entirely, not even when he'd gone into VT in the resus room. Hypoxia serious enough to cause brain damage was still possible, but unlikely.

The drugs, on the other hand, could have far reaching effects. Cognitive impairment, memory loss, personality changes. Cocaine use caused irreversible cardiac damage that could manifest at any point, and he had been on that poison the longest. Decades, in fact.

He was committing slow-motion suicide, and there seemed to be nothing anyone could do to stop him.

If he hadn't already accomplished it, and they just didn't realize it yet.

What drove John to distraction was WHY a man with Sherlock's genius could do something so incredibly stupid. He wasn't a rebellious teenager anymore. The drug abuse back then had been just as idiotic, but was at least explainable. But this... It made no sense.

Addiction was a lifelong struggle, but it was winnable. Sherlock had been clean for years. The crop of track marks he had now said loud and clear that this wasn't just 'for a case'. He had clearly been using for at least a few weeks, if not longer. John had watched him struggle to wean himself off the morphine before he left the hospital in September, and then suffered along with him dealing with the pain from his healing gunshot wound for months after that. What could have caused him to throw all of that away? And how could he have started using again without John seeing some sign of it? Had he really been so consumed with his own problems that he couldn't see what was happening right in front of him?

The monitor alarms were silenced for the night, but the flashing cardiac alarm light might as well have been a claxon going off next to his ear. John was on his feet leaning over Sherlock before he knew he was moving. VTach. 170. In the space of a few seconds, Sherlock's heart rate had nearly doubled. The nurse was already taking the defib paddles from their clips on the wall next to the bed, her eyes on the monitor. John counted the seconds as they waited.

Ten... Twenty... Thirty...

"Dammit, Sherlock, _stop this_ ," John ground out.

As if responding to John's command, Sherlock's heart rate dropped abruptly to normal.

The nurse gave him a curious look and put the paddles back on the wall.

He blew out a shaky breath and managed a smile. "One of my many talents," he joked feebly.

She returned his smile. "Very handy, too." She checked vitals, then went back to her seat.

John sank back into his chair and closed his eyes for a moment, breathing with the rhythm of Sherlock's ventilator. "You're an idiot. I'm going to keep telling you that until you stop being one." It was almost a term of endearment, the way they usually employed it, but not in this case. Not when it was the truth.

"Was I thinking too loudly a moment ago? Is that why you decided to shake things up? Well, it worked. My brain is now as scrambled as yours. But with me, it's just a temporary condition brought on by that little stunt you just pulled."

He heard a soft chuckle and turned to find the nurse smiling at him. "Sorry, I didn't mean to laugh, but that was funny. Keep talking to him. I have it on good authority that he can hear you. It's good for him."

He knew she was required to be here as long as her patient was intubated, but the rest of what he wanted to say to Sherlock needed privacy. His leg started to jiggle in frustration.

She seemed to read his discomfort. "I was thinking this might be a good time to grab some coffee. Would you like me to bring one back for you?"

He hoped his smile conveyed his gratitude. "Thank you. That would be great."

She got to the door and paused. "It will take me about five minutes. I'll knock when I get back."

As soon as the door closed behind her, he began to speak.

"Can you hear me? That's an opportunity too good to pass up. Me talking and you having to listen without interrupting. What I said a moment ago was true, by the way. You scrambled your brain this time. The speedball was bad enough, but ketamine? And LSD, for God's sake? What the hell were you trying to do? You nearly had a meltdown in Baskerville when you thought your senses had failed you, and yet here you go warping them on purpose with bloody hallucinogens. For what?"

He knew he was rapidly working himself up to a full head of steam, and this was not the time or place to vent it. He paced his breathing to match the ventilator as he'd done earlier, and it started to calm him down.

He didn't realize he was holding Sherlock's left hand until it moved. It was just a twitch, really, probably in response to the unintentional vice grip he had clamped around those long fingers at some point during his brief rant. He started to pull his hand away, then changed his mind and just loosened it a bit. He scrubbed his free hand over his face in frustration.

"You're going to be the death of me, I hope you know. If you don't stop this crap, you're going to kill yourself for real, and take me with you. How many times do you think you can take it to the brink and still come back? Better still, why the hell are doing it at all? What are you trying to prove? That you don't give a damn what happens? I'm getting that message, Sherlock, but I don't have the first clue why."

But that wasn't entirely true. Mary seemed to believe that Sherlock was more upset about their marriage than he appeared to be. She was worried about him, and had said so more than once. When John had started having nightmares about him on their honeymoon, she had told him that his attachment to Sherlock was not something he should ever try to hide from, or be uncomfortable about. She said that Sherlock felt the same, and that kind of friendship was a gift to be treasured. She was afraid for Sherlock, but had never said specifically what she was afraid of. He was beginning to think that this was it. When he'd believed Sherlock was dead, it had nearly destroyed him, but it had never occurred to him that Sherlock would feel anything at all if their roles had been reversed. If he was as wrong about that as Mary seemed to think, what else was he missing?

When the nurse returned, she handed him a paper cup that smelled like real coffee, not the tasteless brown liquid he had expected.

"There's someone outside asking to see you," she told him as she resumed her seat.

He was very surprised to find Molly Hooper waiting for him on the other side of the double doors.

"How is he?" She was twisting one tail of her long scarf into knots.

"Molly, what are you doing here?" Her face fell, and he quickly added, "Sorry, I didn't mean that the way it sounded. I'm just surprised to see you. How did you know we were here?"

She looked uncomfortable. "I, um, got a call from Marth-- Mrs. Hudson. She said Mary called to tell her that Sherlock wasn't going away after all, and about what happened." She tilted her head at the ITU doors. "How is he? They won't let me see him."

He smiled. "Let me see what I can do."

He spoke with Sherlock's nurse who quickly got permission for yet another exception, and he went back out to fetch Molly.

Molly stopped at the foot of Sherlock's bed and reached hesitantly to rest one hand on the footboard. She checked the monitors. "I knew it was bad, but..."

"He was lucky. If the plane hadn't come back when it did..." He hadn't actually considered that possibility until this moment, but it was true. He cleared his throat. "You didn't know he was using drugs, either. How could we have missed this?"

She chewed her lip. "Well, we both knew after that morning you brought him in to my lab. And I'm sure he was on opiates for pain in the hospital. But nothing like this. If I'd seen the slightest sign, I would have called you."

John snorted. "That would have been a waste of time. He doesn't listen to me."

She go of the bed and turned to face him. "You can't possibly believe that."

He started to say yes, of course he believed it, but Molly rolled right over him.

"Because if you do, then you're an even bigger idiot than he is. You're his best friend, John. There is nothing he wouldn't do for you."

"Except stop killing himself with drugs." 

"Give him a reason not to."

The fierce look she was giving him was almost as baffling the words that had come with it. "A reason not to do what? You think this is MY fault?" She didn't know about Magnussen. Nobody who didn't have to know had been told. For all she knew, this had come out of nowhere, so of course she would think it must have something to do with John. "It's not about me, Molly. I don't have a clue what he's thinking anymore."

"Don't you? Why was he going away, John? What happened?" It sounded perilously close to an accusation.

He stared at her. "It wasn't about me," he said it slowly, enunciating every syllable.

Her eyes were suddenly shiny with tears. "Then please tell me what it was about because I have been racking my brain since he told me. Did you know he called me this morning to say goodbye? He made it sound like something he had decided on his own, but that was just words. I could hear it in his voice. He..." She stopped to get herself under control. "He thought he was hiding it from me, but he was wrong. He didn't want to leave, John. It was killing him."

He looked down, eyes squeezed tight for a moment before he could answer her. "He didn't have a choice."

"There is no power on earth that could have made him leave you unless he believed it was what you wanted him to do."

His throat tightened. "It's not what I wanted."

She gave him a sad smile. "I'm not the one you need to convince." She went around to the head of the bed and touched Sherlock's cheek. Then she leaned down and whispered something John was not meant to hear. When she straightened, she brushed fingertips beneath damp eyes. "Tell him, John. Make him believe you."

John stayed at the foot of the bed for a long time after she left, just watching Sherlock's chest rise and fall to the rhythm of the vent. Molly didn't know the whole story. She was drawing conclusions without all the facts. Sherlock couldn't possibly have chosen exile because he thought John wanted him to. But Mary had been worried about him long before Magnussen came along. Could she and Molly have been seeing the same thing?

He walked to the head of the bed and bent down so Sherlock could hear his whisper over the whoosh of the ventilator. "You can't leave, do you hear me? Not now. Not ever. No matter what it takes."

When the nurse came over to do a vitals check sometime later, she found John had fallen asleep with his head pillowed on one arm on the bed, and the other stretched out with his hand spread protectively on Sherlock's chest.

* * *  
end of chapter two

 

**A/N - So, were you surprised to see Molly? She will always have Sherlock's back. - Ghyll**


	3. "He's not suicidal."

***

John left the room at half seven to call Mary with an update. When he came back less than five minutes later, he got his first adrenaline jolt for the day. Dr. Lawson was standing at the foot of the bed along with the nurse, and they were blocking his view of Sherlock. "What's happened?"

Lawson turned. "The propofol and midazolam have been discontinued. I wanted to check on him before I go off shift." She had added the midazolam to the infusion to enhance the effect of the propofol. Unfortunately, it would likely increase any memory impairment as well.

He could see, of course, that they weren't dealing with a crisis, and blamed his knee jerk reaction on worry and exhaustion. "Yes, right. I remember. How long before you expect him to come around?"

She smiled. "It shouldn't be long now. He's already triggering the ventilator himself. We just need him to wake up a bit more before we try taking him off of it."

"That's sooner than you'd planned."

"A bit, yes." She touched his arm briefly. "He's doing better than I expected. We'll give him another half an hour and then do a spontaneous breathing trial. If that works, then we can think about extubation. Dr. Harris will be consulting today. He'll be around to speak with you."

He thanked her, then waited for them to leave before he sat back down in his chair. Sherlock's night nurse was going off duty as well. She came over to do her final check, and John thanked her for her again for letting Molly come in to see Sherlock. 

She nodded, looking vaguely uncomfortable. "About that..."

"You won't get in any trouble, will you? I won't mention it to anyone if you'd rather I didn't."

"No, no. That's not a problem. Dr. Lawson said it was okay." She paused again. "I couldn't help hearing what she said to you. Your friend. I try not to listen, but sometimes..." She took a deep breath. "Family members often feel that their loved one's addiction is evidence of some failing on their part. It's not. I just wanted to make sure you knew that."

"Thank you. I do." He smiled. Believing it was another matter entirely.

"Good." She nodded toward Sherlock. "I hope he's better soon." The day nurse arrived then, and she left him to officially hand over her patient.

He had no idea what he was going to say to Sherlock when he woke up. If Mary and Molly were right, as he was now beginning to believe, this was as much his fault as it was Sherlock's. After all the times John had bemoaned Sherlock's insensitivity, it seemed that his own was even worse. Sherlock routinely trampled the feelings of strangers, and the Met collectively, and especially his own brother, but not John's. Not for years now. He still sniped about the blog, and John's wardrobe choices, but never with the callous disregard he inflicted on the rest of the world. What had inspired the change? And why was he only asking himself that question now?

Sherlock indulging in something as nakedly sentimental as reading John's blog entry about the day they met simply beggared belief, but that's what he'd been doing. He hadn't even bothered to deny it. Not really. He'd said it helped him to see himself through John's eyes because John saw him as so much cleverer than he really was. Sherlock downplaying his own genius... The more John thought about it, the more it made him reconsider what Mary had been telling him, and what Molly had been trying to say last night. Sherlock was upset about something that both of them seemed to think had to do with John. That he'd gone back with Mary? It had been his bloody idea! Sherlock had been relentless in trying to persuade him to do just that. Insisting that John had to forgive her. Making him realize that he still loved her, in spite of the lies. It was what she had done to Sherlock that had been the hardest to deal with. Forgiving her for nearly killing him was more than John could manage. He had come to terms with it, but only because Sherlock himself had forgiven her, and had tried so hard to make John do the same. Why would Sherlock do that, if he didn't want him to leave?

He knew what Molly would say. Without even hearing the question, she had tried to answer it last night.

_"You're his best friend, John. There's nothing he wouldn't do for you."_

_"No power on earth could have made him leave you unless he believed it was what you wanted him to do."_

If Sherlock had not made it his personal mission to get him back with Mary, John would still be living at Baker Street. There was no question about that. Hell, he was still dreaming about Sherlock every goddamned night. Lying in bed next to his wife, dreaming about his friend. He had made the mistake of telling his therapist about the dreams shortly before the wedding, and she had leaped instantly to the utterly unhelpful conclusion that he must be having second thoughts. 

_"John, we talked about this before you knew Sherlock was still alive. Your relationship with him has always been extraordinarily complex, and it would seem that you're still not reconciled with how you feel about him."_

And whose bloody fault was _that_? John had been in more relationships than he could remember, starting when he was thirteen years old, and not one of them had been with a man, or even a less-than-curvaceous woman. He was one hundred per cent not gay. And yet, he had never loved anyone in his life the way he loved Sherlock. It was completely without a trace of sexual attraction-- he couldn't even imagine touching Sherlock with that kind of intent-- , but he was undeniably attracted BY him. Drawn to him. Destroyed when he'd been 'dead'. Never completely happy when they were apart. 

When he'd pointed out to his therapist that he had bedded women on three continents, she had asked him dryly if he was at all familiar with the term 'overcompensation', which of course he'd deserved for letting her goad him into such an obvious display of it. It wasn't that he'd been exaggerating, but blurting it out to his therapist had been wildly inappropriate.

He had tried to cover his embarrassment by asking her if--

Sherlock squeezed his hand and he nearly knocked the chair over jumping out of it.

"Sherlock, it's John." It was an unnecessary statement given that Sherlock was looking directly at him. "You're on a ventilator. Don't try to talk." 

His eyes were not just open, they were wild with rapidly mounting panic. His grip on John's hand was painfully intense, and he was beginning to thrash, fighting the vent.

John gently but firmly disengaged his hand so he could put both of them on Sherlock's shoulders and press him back down on the bed. He heard the nurse speaking on the intercom, calling for assistance. A moment later, she was on the opposite side of the bed. 

She snagged one flailing arm and nodded to John to grab the other one. "Sherlock, you need to lie still. You're in intensive care. There is a tube in your mouth that's breathing for you. If you stop struggling, we can remove it."

Sherlock's panic was rapidly escalating, his eyes on John's face with a plea that could not have been clearer if he'd been shouting at the top of his lungs.

John spoke calmly to the nurse. "It's the tube that's causing this. We need to take it out."

She shook her head. "The doctor will be here in a moment."

"Does it look to you like he can wait that long? I can do it, just get me a syringe and some gloves." 

Sherlock's struggles eased a fraction, and he turned pleading eyes back to John.

The door opened and John glanced up to see the day consultant, Dr. Harris, start into the room. "He's panicking about the tube."

Harris came quickly to John's side. "I can see that," he said mildly. He put his hand next to John's on Sherlock's wriggling wrist. When John didn't move immediately, Harris lifted an eyebrow. John let go of Sherlock and stepped out of the way.

Sherlock's agitation ramped up again the instant he lost sight of John. "Sherlock, I'm right here." He moved to the foot of the bed and locked their gazes. "You know the drill. Just do what the doctor tells you, and it will be over in a few seconds."

The only parts of Sherlock he could reach were his feet, so he put a hand on each one and felt wiggling toes through the blanket. The extubation process required a cooperative patient and a properly timed deep cough. With John in physical contact with him once more, Sherlock provided both on command, and the tube was out. Sherlock coughed to the point of gagging for a moment, then sagged back against the pillows, completely spent.

"Not yet, Mr. Holmes. You can sleep in a few minutes. I need to have a look at you first."

Dr. Harris began asking orientation questions, assessing his patient's overall condition. John stayed at the foot of the bed, still holding onto Sherlock . As he watched the doctor do his evaluation, John's momentary relief began to evaporate.

The glassy, unfocused gaze, and slow, slurred speech were expected under the circumstances, but the rest was not. Sherlock had no idea where he was. He got the year wrong, and the month. He of course could not say who the Prime Minister was, which John quickly explained was a personal quirk, not a sign of brain damage. When the doctor asked if he knew why he was being treated. Sherlock immediately lifted his left hand to the healed scars from the bullet Mary had put in his chest, and frowned at John in utter confusion.

As Dr Harris began to test Sherlock's coordination - asking Sherlock to touch the clinicians finger and then his nose- John watched with growing concern. There was no tremor but Sherlock was struggling, his finger making a meandering path between the two, and on several occasions he overshot the target entirely. 

The doctor finished his evaluation and turned to John. "If you could join me for a moment?"

"I'll be right there." He walked around the bed and put his hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "I'll be right outside. Will you be okay for a few minutes?"

"Of course. Why wouldn't I be?" He attempted an eye roll that didn't quite come off.

John was torn between needing to hug him, and wanting very much to shake him until his teeth rattled. He settled for squeezing his shoulder. "Do not get out of that bed."

Harris was waiting for him outside the door.

"When you first came in, I hope you didn't think I was questioning your--"

Harris waved him off. "I know how hard it is, having to stand back and watch. I've been there. He's your...?" 

John found himself surprisingly unsure of the answer to that question, and it created a pause that lifted Harris' eyebrow. "Friend," John said finally.

Harris' expression flickered for an instant. He cleared his throat. "Your friend is confused, obviously, but that's to be expected at this point. His lack of coordination is fairly pronounced, and that does concern me. It could still be the drugs, but we have to consider the possibility of brain injury. If we don't see improvement by this evening, I may schedule an MRI to rule that out. He's going to be here for at least another twenty-four hours, but we should have a good handle on where we are by then. And of course, his mental status will have to be evaluated before he can be released. That's standard procedure in these cases."

"He's not suicidal."

The doctor's smile was professionally neutral. "Let's hope the mental health evaluation bears that out. I'll be back to check on him in a few hours."

Sherlock had gone back to sleep in the few minutes John had been out of the room. John stood next to him for long enough to satisfy himself that Sherlock's breathing was keeping pace, and his pulse was behaving properly before he settled back into his chair. 

The nurse was no longer required to remain in the room now that Sherlock was off the ventilator, and they were alone for the first time since those last moments before they had boarded the helicopter to meet with Magnussen. It felt like a lifetime ago; the other side of an instant in time when he could have changed everything that happened afterward with a single act. There was no justification for bringing the gun. None whatever. As far as he had known at the time, the entire purpose for going to Christmas dinner was to reconcile with his wife. He told himself now that he'd been too consumed with what he was going to say to her, and what it would mean, and if he could actually go through with it, to analyze Sherlock's request for the gun. It had made no sense, but what could be the harm? 

The answer to that question was all too clear now. 

The last seven days had passed in a fog, with Mary practically tiptoeing around him. Whatever she must have imagined their reunion would be like, this couldn't have been it. After more than six months apart, they had needed time to talk through their problems and settle back into living together, but it hadn't quite worked out that way. They had talked for hours the first night, but most of it had been about Sherlock, and every moment since had been the same. If he wanted their marriage to have any chance at all, he would have to commit himself to doing his part.

Wait. 

Not 'if'. Of course he wanted their marriage to work. It was just that--

"John?"

The belief that Sherlock could actually read his mind had grown out of moments like this. It was as if Sherlock had sensed he was losing John's undivided attention, and knew just how to draw it back. "I'm right here. How do you feel?"

Sherlock's eyes were still closed, and he was frowning. "Smells like hospital."

"Good deduction. How do you feel?"

The frown deepened. Sherlock cracked one eye open and peered at John. "What are we doing here?"

John resisted the impulse to ask if he remembered what had happened ten minutes previously because the answer was obvious. "You've just come off twelve hours on a propofol and midazolam infusion, and it's messing with your memory. It should clear up in a few hours. How do you feel?"

Sherlock scrunched up his face as he took stock. "Odd."

"Odd, how? Are you in pain? Do you feel sick?" He reached for the basin on the nightstand.

"Not sick." More scrunching. "Muzzy."

John replaced the basin and sat back. "I'm not surprised. What do you remember?"

"Where are we?"

"Royal London ICU."

Sherlock opened both eyes are frowned at him. "Hospital?"

John got up from his chair and cupped Sherlock's face to get a good look at his eyes. "Yeah, we just had this same conversation a moment ago." His pupils were normal. John shadowed the left eye with his hand for a moment, then watched the pupil retract when the light hit it again. He did the same with his right eye. Normal pupillary reflex.

Sherlock reached up to swat the hand away, and missed.

John checked the monitors and noted a slight increase in Sherlock's heart rate. "What's the last thing you remember?"

Sherlock's left hand drifted back to the healed bullet wound. He rubbed at the spot for a moment, then looked up at John. "I don't know." He was becoming increasingly anxious.

John sat down on the edge of the bed and calmly repeated himself. "It's all right, don't worry about it. You've been on a propofol and midazolam infusion for the past twelve hours. Do you know the effects of that?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and looked almost like himself for an instant. "Of course. It..." The smirk died, replaced instantly by confusion. He reached for John's shirt but closed his fingers on air, and his hand bumped into John's arm instead. "What's wrong with me?" Anxiety was turning rapidly to alarm. "John?"

John put his hands on Sherlock's shoulders and tilted his head to connect with Sherlock's darting gaze. He spoke calmly. "You're all right. You just need to sleep this off a bit more. Don't get yourself worked up."

Sherlock made another clumsy grab for John's shirt. John intercepted his hand in a firm grip and held on. Sherlock's fingers curled around his with strength born of panic, his eyes fixed on John's. "What happened?" 

"You took an overdose, Sherlock. Multiple drugs. You had to be hospitalized." It was impossible to keep the anger out of his voice.

Sherlock obviously heard it. He let go of John's hand and turned his face away.

John held onto the hand and pulled it back. "Do you remember now?"

"No." The word was barely audible. 

"Sherlock, it's all right if you don't want to talk about it right now, but I need to know how much you remember. Do you remember taking the drugs?"

He looked up at John finally, and his eyes were brimming with tears. It was so unexpected that John drew back, momentarily dumbstruck. 

"I need to sleep," Sherlock said in a voice that sounded almost normal. And a few seconds later, he had settled back and closed his eyes. 

John watched him for a moment, still holding on to his hand. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock's breathing slowed and deepened. John looked up at the monitors to verify it, then gently placed Sherlock's hand on the bed. He was sound asleep.

* * *

End of chapter 3


	4. "You can't fix this, John."

* * *

It took six hours for the fog to lift. Six hours of watching Sherlock wake up and struggle to understand where he was, his senses so blunted by the drugs that the questions he'd already asked over and over were new to him each time, as was the panic that inevitably followed. It was exhausting for both of them. And then little by little, Sherlock began to retain bits of information from one waking to the next. His questions became more pointed, and the panic gave way to frustration. He was aware of the gaps in his memory, and began fighting to fill them in. It was progress, finally. He wasn't all the way back, but there was now no question that he would be- eventually.

The intervals gradually shortened, and the periods of wakefulness lengthened. Dr. Harris had retested Sherlock's coordination the last time Sherlock was awake, and the improvement the doctor had been looking for had satisfied him that there was no need for the MRI. With the threat of brain damage now ruled out, John's fear had morphed into a disheartening sense of déjà vu. 

This was going to happen again- the risk taking, the drugs, the relentless pursuit of a solution with no regard for the consequences. Whether Moriarty was really back, or whether it was just another madman stepping into his shoes, made no difference. Something was driving Sherlock back to the worst of his old habits and behaviors, and it looked like there was nothing John or anyone else could do to stop it.

John almost wished Sherlock's mental health evaluation would get him sectioned for long enough to knock sense into him, but there was little chance of that happening. The doctors couldn't hold him for the drug use alone, not without suicidal intent, and Sherlock would know exactly what to say to make them believe it was safe to let him go. He had once told John that the best way to sell a lie was to wrap it in the truth, and Sherlock could tell the doctors truthfully that he hadn't been trying to kill himself when he took the overdose. The lie was in what he would not be telling them. That the path he was on could well lead to the same result. And John was beginning to believe that Sherlock didn't give a damn either way.

But knowing what was happening, and knowing how to stop it were two very different things. Mycroft had been trying for decades. John had seen defeat in his eyes for the first time on the plane as he had passed the mantle to John. _Look after him. Please?_ The hopelessness in his voice said that he believed John would fail as well. And if history was any indication, Mycroft could be right. But John knew one thing that Mycroft didn't. He would damn well die before he gave up. 

The monitor beeps began to pick up speed, which meant Sherlock was waking up. John took a deep breath and waited for the questions to begin. 

But this time was different. Sherlock's breathing sped up, then steadied. His heart rate slowed. A moment later, he opened his eyes and gazed placidly at the ceiling. "What time is it?" 

The casual tone made John smile. "Just past two."

"Morning or afternoon?"

"Afternoon. How do you feel?" 

Sherlock located the bed control and pushed a button to raise the head to a sitting position before he turned to look at John. "A little hungover. And thirsty."

Feeling slightly unreal, John filled a plastic cup with water and handed it to him. "Take it slow." He waited for Sherlock to take a few sips, then took the cup back and set it on the table. "Do you know where you are?"

The eye roll was oddly reassuring. "Royal London Hospital," he said as if he'd been the one answering the same questions over and over for hours. "When can I leave?"

John sat down on the edge of the bed. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves. You're still in the ICU. It's going to be another day or so."

"Ridiculous." Sherlock picked up the call button and pressed it. "There's no need to keep me here any longer, and certainly not in intensive care. I'm fine."

John felt the smile freeze on his face. "Do you have any idea how close you came to frying your brain this time? They’re wondering whether you tried to kill yourself!" He jerked a thumb in the general direction of the door. "Nobody's letting you out of here until they're satisfied that you won't."

Sherlock regarded him calmly. "Is that what you think I was doing?"

"I don't think the possibility that it might kill you ever entered the equation. What the _hell_ were you thinking?"

"I told you." He tried to cross his arms, but the IV cannula made it awkward, so he settled for lifting his chin indignantly.

"Yeah, I heard what you said. You needed an overdose to figure out how Moriarty could still be alive. Even if that made a grain of sense, it doesn't explain why you had the drugs with you in the first place. Or are you going to try to tell me that you knew Moriarty was going to stage a surprise resurrection as soon as the plane took off?"

Sherlock was spared the need to reply when the door opened, and a nurse came over to the opposite side of the bed. "Is there something I can get for you?"

"Yes, you can bring me whatever I need to sign so I can get out of here." He tried to swing his legs over the side, only to find himself deftly blocked by John. 

The nurse put a soothing hand on Sherlock's arm, then withdrew it when he glared at her. "I'll send the doctor in to speak with you." She shot John a meaningful glance on her way out.

John took a breath and got his temper under control. "Why the drugs, Sherlock?"

"I'm not saying it again."

"Mycroft said you were high before you got on the plane. Is that true?" 

Sherlock sagged back against the mattress and closed his eyes.

"Sherlock? Tell me what the hell you were thinking because I've racked my brain trying to figure it out."

"It doesn't matter."

"The hell it doesn't." He grabbed Sherlock's shoulder and squeezed until he opened his eyes. "Whatever it takes, this is going to stop. I'm not going to let you kill yourself." His voice hitched and he ducked his head for a moment to regain control. 

"I'm not going to kill myself." He glanced wearily at the ceiling.

The bored tone reignited John's anger. "All evidence to the contrary."

"All evidence confirms it, in fact. I'm alive, John."

"How happy would you be about that if you'd managed to destroy your brain, which you could easily have done?"

"If my brain were destroyed, I'd no longer have the sense to know what was lost, would I?" His voice was chillingly matter of fact.

John was still staring at him in appalled silence when the door opened a moment later to admit Dr. Harris. 

"I understand that you've asked to sign yourself out." 

John stepped away from the bed and sat down in his chair, still trying to process the implications of what he'd just heard. He wouldn't have believed that he could be more worried than he'd been a moment ago. It seemed there was no limit to how wrong he could be. 

Harris told Sherlock that arrangements were already underway to move him to a private room outside of the ICU, but that his release was contingent upon the results of an evaluation of his mental status. It was a debate Sherlock was not going to win. John was only half listening. 

When Harris left, John got up to follow him. 

"John?"

He kept moving. "I need to make a call," he said as he pulled the door open with more force than necessary. He caught Sherlock's puzzled frown from the corner of his eye as the door closed behind him.

He took the stairs to the lobby and walked out of the building, then paced the pavement for another ten minutes until he felt calm enough to call Mary. She would be there as soon as she could get a cab, she insisted. John told her he was sure Sherlock would be happy to see her because he knew it was what she wanted to hear. Aside from assuring her that Sherlock would be all right, he didn't give her any details. He needed her unbiased first impression of Sherlock's mood.

He went back inside, planning to wait for her before going back to find Sherlock, but after twenty minutes of fidgeting, he gave up and headed upstairs.

When he reached the ICU, one of the nurses at the front desk informed him that Sherlock was already in his private room on the next floor down. He spotted the guard in front of a door halfway down the corridor as soon as he stepped off the elevator. When he drew closer, he could hear Sherlock's voice through the closed door. The tone told him Mycroft was on the receiving end of the tirade.

"Is his brother in there with him?"

The guard looked slightly abashed. "He insisted on borrowing my mobile."

John pushed the door open, walked to the bed, took the phone from Sherlock's hand and brought it to his own ear. "Mycroft, I'll get back to you." He ended the call and met Sherlock's dumbfounded stare. "You've put him through enough hell, Sherlock. Give it a rest." He dropped the phone into his pocket and crossed his arms over his chest. 

Sherlock seemed frozen for a moment, the hand that had held the phone still raised. The shock didn't last long. His eyes narrowed. "You're _defending Mycroft_?" 

John dragged one of the visitor chairs over next to the bed and sat down. "I can't let you pile any more abuse on your brother right now, Sherlock. You'd understand if you'd been in your right mind the last time you saw him. He's about at the end of his rope."

Sherlock scoffed at such a ridiculous notion. "Mycroft? I assure you, if he's pretending to be affected by this, he's got a very good reason for doing so that has nothing whatever to do with sentiment. Now give me the phone. He's going to get me out of here. It's the least he can do." He held out his hand.

"The least he can do? You mean, besides risking his career to help you get away with murder? Or enabling your drug habit?" 

"Mycroft never takes a risk unless it benefits him. Don't be an idiot."

"You're right. I _am_ an idiot. But not about Mycroft. How long have you been getting high right under my nose?"

Sherlock looked properly offended. "What makes you think I've been doing anything of the kind?"

John got up from his chair and grabbed Sherlock's wrist, turning his arm to reveal the track marks. "That." He held on when Sherlock tried to twist away. "How long, Sherlock?"

"The duration is irrelevant."

"Like hell it is. How long?"

Sherlock's jaw clenched. "It doesn't matter."

"That's the second time you've said that, and it makes me want to--" He broke off, searching in vain for words that could begin to express his frustration. He took a deep breath. "It fucking matters, Sherlock. It matters to me. It matters to your brother, whether you believe that or not."

"Oh, I do believe it matters to him, but not for the reason you think."

John crossed his arms. "Please enlighten me."

"He's never considered me anything but a tedious liability, except for the rare occasions when he happens to have a use for me. The only reason he brought me back from Serbia was to take care of the terrorist bomb plot that was beyond the dubious talents of his usual minions. It had nothing to do with any concern for me. It was all about what I could do for him." He looked at John curiously. "You used to understand that, and yet somehow, he seems to have won you over to his side."

He let go of Sherlock's wrist, stung by the accusation. "I've never been on anyone's side but yours, and I never will be."

Sherlock's expression softened. "You can't fix this, John."

"If you mean the drugs, you're right. I can't make you stop. You're the only one who can do that. But I can help you find a reason to stop, if you'll let me."

Sherlock's expression was suddenly a mix of hope edged with disbelief. "John, I--" He took a sharp breath, and his gaze abruptly refocused on the door.

John had heard it open behind him, but kept his focus on Sherlock. "Talk to me, Sherlock. What--" And then the look in Sherlock's eyes registered, and John's gut clenched in reaction to what he now recognized as alarm. He turned, half expecting to see James Moriarty grinning from the doorway.

Mary stood frozen a few steps into the room, her smile fading as she realized Sherlock's shocked eyes were fixed on her.

* * *

End of chapter four


	5. "The past can't be changed."

John walked out with her to wait for a taxi, but not because he was coming home. She knew that without asking. He would be staying with Sherlock for as long as Sherlock needed him. It still surprised her that John seemed to believe there would ever come a time when he wouldn't.

It had been raining since last night, so taxis were in short supply. They waited beneath the canopy in front of the hospital, Mary's collar pulled up against the wind, and John's arm around her shoulders.

"I had no idea his memory was still so patchy," John continued. "If I'd known, I would have told him you were coming. I should have realized."

He had been apologizing for Sherlock's startling reaction to her since they had left his room. John clearly believed that Sherlock hadn't recognized her at first, and he was worried that she was hurt by it. He also seemed to think that her hurried departure was proof of how upset she was. But John was wrong. His innocence had always been endearing, but never so useful as it was right now. She slipped her arm under his coat and hugged his waist. "It's all right. I really do understand." 

A gust of wind blew icy rain against her legs, and she shivered involuntarily. John pulled her closer and spoke softly into her ear. "I'm sorry anyway. And I'm sorry you're spending so much time alone. It won't be for much longer. I promise."

She smiled because she knew he believed what he was saying. 

The taxi pulled up then, and she slid gratefully into the overheated backseat. She watched John turn and go back inside to Sherlock before she pulled out the phone Mycroft had given her. He answered on the first ring. "Mycroft, we have to talk. Now."

* * *

John noticed that the guard outside Sherlock's door was gone as soon as he got off the elevator, and he just managed not to break into a run. When he entered Sherlock's room, he found the bed empty and the bathroom door closed. The sound of water running on the other side of the door was only mildly reassuring. "Sherlock? You in there?"

"Out in a minute." It was the familiar sound of Sherlock talking around a toothbrush and a mouthful of toothpaste.

Sherlock's suit jacket was draped over the back of John's chair. A quick check of the closet verified that the rest of Sherlock's clothing was, no doubt, on Sherlock. John crossed his arms and waited.

The sound of water stopped. A moment later, the door opened and Sherlock strode to the chair and shrugged smoothly into his jacket. "We're leaving."

"What gives you that idea?"

Sherlock ignored the question. He lifted one of the shreds that formed the front of his shirt with two disdainful fingers. "Was this really necessary?"

Images from the resuscitation room struggle to save the idiot's life filled John's mind. "Yes. What makes you think we're leaving now?"

"I talked to the doctor after you left with Mary. The mental health evaluation will be done within the hour."

And of course Mycroft would already know that, too. That's why the guard was no longer on duty. It seemed Mycroft was taking his abdication of Sherlock's welfare to John very seriously. John needed to do the same. "You're confident you'll be released?" Even as he asked the question, he knew the answer.

"Of course."

Not surprisingly, they were riding to Baker Street less than two hours later in the back of the car Mycroft had sent for them. Sherlock had made short work of the mental health evaluation team, and John had been braced for a triumphant play by play. Instead, Sherlock seemed content to rest on his laurels. To say the least, it wasn't like him.

"You don't have to come in. Go home and have dinner with Mary." He said this looking out the window, not at John.

"I'm coming in."

"Mycroft will have had the place searched from top to bottom. There's no need for you to do the same." He was still avoiding John's eyes.

John crossed his arms. 

Sherlock exhaled wearily and turned to look at him. "I didn't leave any drugs behind, John. I never expected to be back to use them."

"That's not why I'm coming in."

Sherlock eyes narrowed for a moment, then he turned back to the window.

Mrs. Hudson flung the door open before they reached it and wrapped Sherlock in a fierce hug, her face buried against his chest. Sherlock put his arms around her shoulders and held her for a long moment. When she finally released him and stepped back, she gave him a stern look. "You frightened me to death. Don't ever do that again." She turned to John. "Call me if you need anything." She gave Sherlock a tender smile and disappeared into her flat.

The reality of this latest near miss hit John when he took his customary left turn into the kitchen. What he saw stopped him in his tracks. The worktop was clear. No tea kettle. No lab equipment. It smelled of disinfectant and soap. 

He turned toward the living room. The bookshelves were empty. He walked through the archway and gaped at the rest of the room. Every surface was cleared and dusted. There were packing boxes, sealed and labelled, stacked in the middle of the floor. Sherlock was standing at the left window, looking out at the street. "I wonder what they did with the bison skull. It can't be in one of those boxes."

John had no words for this. It was a violation as personal as anything he had ever felt. 

Sherlock turned to look at him. "Don't look so surprised. I wasn't supposed to be coming back."

"But she didn't do this even when we thought you were dead!" 

"Mrs. Hudson had nothing to do with this. I asked Mycroft to clear it all out." He took off his coat and dropped it on the stack of boxes. "So, you see you can safely go home. I'll be too busy unpacking to get into any mischief for at least a few days."

"I didn't come with you to keep you out of trouble, Sherlock. We need to talk." He glanced automatically at their chairs in front of the fireplace, both draped with sheets and facing the empty bookcases. He noticed the chill for the first time. The room was icy. 

"The case can wait for a few days."

Sherlock's odd tone, not to mention the words themselves, turned John around to look at him. "You seemed pretty damned eager to get started on it when you stormed off the plane."

"I need to think." The same vague, distant tone. Sherlock walked to the chairs and removed the sheets, then slid them back to their correct positions. He tossed the sheets on top of the boxes and crouched in front of the fireplace to light it.

"You need to think about what?" And then it dawned on him. "You do remember the case we're talking about, don't you?" He was hoping for a snappy smirk. He got silence instead. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock waited until the fire hissed to life before he straightened. He answered without turning around. "Not entirely." He sat down in his chair.

John walked over and dropped into his own chair. "What do you mean?"

Sherlock was looking at the fire. "Moriarty's image was broadcast to every screen in the country. That's why Mycroft called the plane back." He seemed to be choosing his words. Searching for them. 

"And I never thought I'd be thanking either of them for anything." John waited for Sherlock to smile at that before he continued. "You said you knew exactly what Moriarty was going to do next."

Sherlock hesitated. "Yes. I did. Unfortunately, the...details of that deduction seem temporarily...unclear." 

It was a disturbing admission for both of them. John cleared his throat. "Which is one of the reasons I wanted to come up. The sedation is going to make it hard for you to remember for a few days. I can help you with that."

"What were the other reasons?"

John had expected a firm denial that any help was required, least of all from him. He wasn't prepared to jump right into this, but... "I need you to tell me why you took the overdose. And please let's skip the crap about needing it to solve the hundred-year-old case so you could figure out if Moriarty was really back. You do know that makes no sense at all?"

"You don't understand." 

"You're right. I don't. You say you took an overdose to sharpen your thought processes when you know damn well it would do nothing of the kind. Mycroft said you were high before you ever got on the plane. Is that true?"

The bridge of Sherlock's nose creased in an indignant frown. "I never said that."

"Yes, you did. Just before you asked yourself a question in a damned close imitation of my voice and then passed out cold." It was too much information delivered in a voice that had slipped unintentionally into anger. He took a deep breath. "Were you high before you left?"

Sherlock sank back in his chair. "What difference does it make?"

John swallowed a fresh rush of anger. "So, that's a 'yes'. I need you to tell me why." 

Sherlock's gaze shifted to a point over John's shoulder. "It's a pointless question. There is no justification you would accept." His voice was soft. Resigned.

His throat tightened. "I'm not asking you to justify what you're doing, Sherlock. I want to understand what's driving you so I can help." Mary's words came back to him along with a clear image of Sherlock's face when she had walked in on them this afternoon. "Is it something about Mary? Do you think we-- do you think I don't--" He had no idea how to finish that thought.

Sherlock's focus came back to John. "Go home, John. It's got nothing to do with you or Mary. I started back on the heroin for Magnussen, and being in the hospital all that time turned it back into an addiction. It's no more complicated than that. I will deal with it."

"You don't have to deal with it alone."

That earned him a sad smile. "That's the only way it works." 

John had to look away, but everything he saw around them was proof of what Sherlock's life had become, and suddenly all he wanted in the world was to put everything back. Turn back the clock and make things the way they had been. For just a moment, he allowed his mind to consider a thought that had been teasing at its edges for the past week. How different it could all have been if he'd never met Mary. If he had been strong enough to hold it together on his own. If he had stayed here after Sherlock's funeral instead of slinking off to a bedsit because he couldn't bear the reminders of what he had lost. The very things that were now packed in boxes and tossed in bins. If Sherlock hadn't talked him into going back with her, there would have been no reason to murder Magnussen. No need for Sherlock to throw his life away to save Mary for John. Everything that had happened was because of Mary, and ultimately John because she was only in their lives because he had been too weak to stand on his own without Sherlock. 

"Stop it." Sherlock's firm command snapped John's focus back to him. "None of this was your fault."

"Stop reading my mind." 

"It hardly takes a mind reader to see that you're allowing your ego to run away with your common sense." Sherlock was giving him a weirdly bemused smile.

John frowned at him. "What?"

"It's a well-documented phenomenon. Addicts make their friends feel responsible for them in wholly inappropriate ways. It's the 'look what you made me do' defence. You're smarter than this, John."

"If you're trying to distract me, it's not working."

Sherlock stood up. "I'm going to have a long shower and go to bed. You need to go home and do the same." He headed for the hall.

John got out of his chair and caught up with him in two long strides. He opened his mouth, then closed it and tried again. "What just happened?"

Sherlock lifted an eyebrow and looked down at his arm. John followed his gaze and realized his hand was gripping Sherlock's bicep. He let go and cleared his throat. "You can't distract me this easily, Sherlock."

"I'm not trying to distract you. I'm trying to make you go home so I can go to bed. You said the memory issues would resolve themselves with rest. I'm following your advice."

"Since when?"

Something flickered in Sherlock's eyes. "Since always, John."

John smiled in spite of himself. "You can't disarm me by being agreeable. We still have a lot to talk about."

Sherlock's expression softened. "The past can't be changed, John. You have to let it go."

"It's not that simple." 

"It's exactly that simple." Sherlock exhaled slowly. "Look, if it will help, I forgive you for whatever it is you think you've done. And I apologize for everything I've done. Do you forgive me?"

"Of course." He didn't even have to think about it.

Sherlock smiled. "It's a clean slate, then. And we have a case to work. Go home. Stop making me repeat myself." He walked to the bathroom and closed the door behind him.

John listened to the shower start up, and the rattle of the rings on the shower rod. He could sit here and wait, but Sherlock was not going to talk to him if he did. Tomorrow would be better. He might even have the rest of his memory back, and they could actually make some headway.

He took a detour on his way to the door to pick up Sherlock's coat from the stack of boxes and hang it on its peg. At least one familiar sight would greet Sherlock when he came back into the living room.

It wasn't until he tossed the sheets aside and picked up the coat that he got a good look at the machine-printed labels staring up at him from every box in the top row. He stepped back to check the remaining boxes, and they were all the same. Sherlock had asked Mycroft to pack up everything in the flat, and send it all to John.

* * *

Mycroft's car pulled up as she was unlocking her front door. She left it ajar for him and went directly to the kitchen to switch on the kettle. She heard him wiping his feet on the mat, then the door closing. A moment later, his voice drifted blandly from the kitchen doorway.

"If you don't mind, I would rather skip the tea and get straight to the point. My time is limited."

She turned to face him. "Sherlock suspects me."

Mycroft was standing with both hands on the handle of his umbrella in his default posture. His expression was unreadable. "What did he say?"

"Nothing yet, but it won't be long. I went to see him in the hospital this afternoon, and his reaction was like nothing I've ever seen. John thought he didn't recognize me at first, but it was exactly the opposite. He zeroed in on me like a bloody laser sight. I don't know what triggered it, but he's putting the pieces together."

His expression flickered for an instant. "If he were suspicious of you, he would not have allowed you to see it."

"Not if he was fully in control, but he's still feeling the effects of the sedation hangover. He only gave me a glimpse, but it was enough to tell me that we're running out of time. I may not be quite as good at reading people as you are, and I know what I saw."

"And yet you continue to generalize. What is it that you believe he suspects?"

"Nothing about the video. He wouldn't have seen that as a negative." She took a breath, bracing herself for Mycroft's reaction. This would be as catastrophic for his relationship with Sherlock as it would be for hers with John. "The only thing I can think of that would generate the look I saw in his eyes would be a threat to John. That doesn't leave many possibilities, does it?"

Mycroft actually looked pained. "If he suspected my involvement, I would have known about it long ago."

"That's just it. I don't think he ever considered it before. He is now."

A muffled ping prompted him to pull the phone from his jacket and look at the screen. "They have just arrived at Baker Street." He returned the phone to his pocket. "I doubt Sherlock will share his concerns with your husband until he has confirmation, and he won't get that from me. I expect the same from you, unless your newly acquired altruism manages to further degrade the professionalism I relied upon when I chose you for this assignment."

She laughed shortly. "You can thank my 'altruism' for the fact that your brother isn't in a grave somewhere near an airstrip in Eastern Europe. That overdose would have killed him if he'd stayed on the plane another thirty minutes. And as for my assignment, it was you and Sherlock who made it necessary. John was suicidal because of what you two did to him. You hired me to keep him alive until Sherlock came back, but you never understood what it was going to take."

Mycroft regarded her with icy calm. "You would do well to remember that your duty to protect Sherlock is the equal of your duty to John. Or have you forgotten our arrangement?"

No, she had most definitely not forgotten. Mycroft had cornered her outside the hospital two days after she had shot Sherlock in Magnussen's office, and he'd given her a choice. She would either pledge her life to protect Sherlock in ways that Mycroft's minions had never been able to do, or Mycroft would eliminate her from their lives. He hadn't specifically threatened to kill her, but the message had been clear enough. "And I've kept my part of the bargain in more ways than you could ever have hoped. I got him his 'get out of jail free' card with the video. It's all down to you now."

Mycroft continued smoothly, "If you've quite finished attempting to excuse your failures, I have more pressing matters to address. Arranging your escape, and securing my brother's freedom come to mind, and time is apparently even shorter than we anticipated. Denial will be only marginally successful, if we allow Sherlock to reach the point of confronting either of us. You will be hearing from me within forty-eight hours."

She watched him walk serenely to the front door and close it quietly behind him. He had put on a good show, but he was no better at hiding his gut reaction than his brother had been. He could bluster all he wanted, but she had seen the truth in his eyes. Mycroft Holmes knew he had just as much to lose as she did now. And he was afraid.

* * * 

End of chapter five


	6. "What if this had really been the last?"

Sherlock stripped out of his clothes and stepped under the stinging spray. The water was too hot, which meant he would use it up faster, but it would last long enough to eradicate the hospital stench from his skin and his hair. He realized too late that his shampoo and soap were tucked away in the suitcase that was probably in the bedroom. A good scalding would have to suffice. He tipped his head back and let the water blast against his face for as long as he could take it, then turned his back to it. After a few minutes, his skin stopped registering the needle spray and the heat, succumbing to the sensory overload, and his thoughts took over.

It was different this time, and he didn't know why. What he'd injected before he got in the car with Mycroft had barely taken the edge off, but that was all he had wanted. And it had been enough, until the finality he'd thought he'd been ready to accept hit him the moment he pulled off his glove and offered his hand to John for the last time. Releasing that final handshake had felt like stepping off the edge of the earth. It was his last clear memory until the moment he had opened his eyes in yet another hospital bed to find John at his side. 

Everything in between was a chaotic jumble of images that he was struggling to sort out. John's questions had provided clues that helped with some of it, but there were too many gaps. He remembered saying some of the things John had told him he'd said, but not why he'd said them. The words were there, but not the meaning behind them. It was like he'd been reading from a script in a language he didn't understand. The images in his mind came without any memory of his actually having been a part of them. Trying to put them into any kind of order without knowing what had happened in between was proving to be impossible. He needed to fill in the gaps, and it should not be taking him this long.

He had taken drugs in similar combinations before with no residual effects. The dosages this time had been much higher, but it should not have been enough to leave this kind of wreckage behind. His Mind Palace was suddenly uncharted territory that kept bleeding into the real world in flashes that stopped him in the middle of sentences and put a look on John's face that somehow made it worse. There were glimpses of Baker Street, but with everything changed. He kept seeing a cemetery, and an empty grave. And Moriarty. John said he'd told them he was trying to solve the Ricoletti case from 1895 so he could solve Moriarty's apparent return from the dead, but he couldn't see the connection and had no clue why he would have thought there was one to find. The harder he tried to regain control of his thoughts, the more scattered and foreign they became, and it was frankly scaring the hell out of him.

Worst of all was the image that had popped into his head the instant Mary had walked into the room this afternoon: Mycroft sitting in a chair and Mary standing behind him with her hand resting lightly on his shoulder like the dutiful wife in some Victorian family portrait. The cool-eyed assassin with a knowing smile who literally had his brother's back. The implications were appalling.

He could not recall a single instance since the day they had met when he had ever consciously suspected Mary of working with Mycroft, but the idea must have existed in some form because that's how his Mind Palace functioned. It could only work with what he already knew, or what could be extrapolated from what he already knew. The image must have come from data he had buried so deeply that it had taken a near-fatal overdose to dredge it up. If Mary was working for Mycroft, then his conscious perceptions about both of them were catastrophically incomplete. 

He couldn't afford to wait until his memory sorted itself out. He would have to confront Mycroft directly and get the truth out of him no matter what it took. Surprise would be on his side, but only if he acted quickly. 

The water turned cold so abruptly that it took his breath away, and he scrambled to shut off the taps. He regretted the lack of a towel as soon as he stepped out of the shower. His shredded dress shirt made a poor substitute, but it pulled enough of the water from his hair to stop it dripping in icy rivulets down his back.

He was covered in goose bumps and shivering by the time he located his suitcase and dumped the contents out on the bare mattress. He pulled on track pants and a sweatshirt, both of which clung unpleasantly to his damp skin but managed to cut the chill a bit. He was heading for his chair to finish drying out in front of the fire when he remembered his phone and turned toward the stack of boxes to get it out of his coat. He was halfway between the fireplace and the boxes when John's voice floated out of the darkness from the direction of the sofa.

"We need to talk."

Surprise added an unneeded jolt to Sherlock's Mycroft-fuelled adrenaline load, and it sharpened his voice. "What are you still doing here?"

"I was about to leave, and then I changed my mind." The leather creaked as John stood up and walked past Sherlock to settle into his chair. "Your teeth are chattering. Sit down and get warm."

Sherlock's teeth were doing nothing of the kind, but he walked to his chair and sat. The warmth of the fire made his left side feel even colder by contrast. "What changed your mind?"

John started to respond, then paused. His expression was studiously blank. "Why didn't you want me to see the labels on the boxes?"

Sherlock frowned, glancing automatically over his shoulder at the stack of boxes which he now saw were no longer covered. It had been a clumsy attempt to avoid exactly this situation, but then he'd not had time to come up with a more creative diversion after John had insisted on coming up to the flat. "It occurred to me that I should have asked before I sent them to you." And he would really prefer not to hear right now why John seemed even less pleased by the sentiment than he'd expected. 

John laughed shortly. "You've never asked my permission for anything."

Technically true, but that didn't mean he never considered what John would think. In fairness to himself, the decision to have Mycroft send everything to John had been made somewhat under duress. "I take your opinion into account."

"So you can do exactly the opposite."

"John, I admit that sending the boxes to you unannounced was presumptuous, but--"

"It's not about the bloody boxes!" 

Sherlock pressed his lips together and sharpened his focus, eyes narrowed in concentration as he tried to read John's mood.

John ducked his head for a moment, then continued in a calmer voice. "I don't even want to think about what it would have been like to have that stuff show up at my house after you were gone, but that's not the point." He glanced toward the fire, and the full light on his face gave Sherlock a glimpse of tightly controlled anger. John took a deep breath and turned back to face him. "When you were rushing me out of here a little while ago, I should have known there was something you didn't want me to see. The harder you try to distract me from something, the more important it is. Like the address labels on the boxes."

"You just said it wasn't about the boxes." 

"It's not. It's about what you were afraid they would tell me."

Sherlock managed what he considered a very believable eye roll. "If you're going to resort to amateur psychoanalysis, please don't. Remember I just outmanoeuvred a team of experts."

"Oh, so you admit that what you told them was bollocks."

"I admit nothing of the kind." John was definitely learning. "I told them what they wanted to hear, and left out what would have invited further interrogation. It was not bollocks." He hated that word and made sure it came across in his tone.

John's brief smirk said that he wasn't persuaded. "Back to the address labels. You tried to cover them up because you didn't want me to realize that you'd done something as sentimental as bequeathing your belongings to me."

"It was a purely practical decision. Mycroft would have just thrown it all away, and I thought you might have wanted some of it." Which didn't quite refute the sentiment, he realized too late. "Next time, I'll just drop a lit match on my way out." 

John inhaled audibly at that. Sherlock bit his lip. "Sorry," he said without really knowing why.

"When I walked in here tonight, it finally hit me. You really weren't coming back."

"John, you knew that before I got on the plane." Not at first, Sherlock knew. But he had seen in John's eyes the moment he had finally believed it.

"Knowing is one thing. Understanding is..." He took a breath. "When I saw everything taken down and packed away, it was like a punch in the gut."

"But I'm back." He could feel John's distress, but its source confused him.

"Yeah, this time. What about the next time, Sherlock? How many second chances do you think we're going to get? What if this really had been the last time? Before you got on the plane, did we talk about anything that mattered? Did I tell you how sorry I was for what was going to happen to you because of me? Because of Mary? Did I even bloody thank you for giving up everything to save her?"

John was breathing hard and gripping the arms of the chair. Sherlock searched frantically for the right thing to say to make it better, but he had no idea where this was coming from. "John, none of this was your fault. You don't owe me anything at--"

"Jesus CHRIST, Sherlock, I owe you my fucking LIFE!"

Sherlock sat back, mimicking John's posture as his own anxiety pushed hard at the limits of his control. "No."

"Yes." John took a deep breath. "When I met you, I was just about at the end of my rope. You know that. You read it all in the first two minutes. You fixed me, Sherlock, and you've never asked anything in return. You're the best thing that could have happened to me, and I've never done a damn thing to repay you."

Sherlock shook his head. "No, this is exactly what I was trying to say earlier. How can you possibly think you need to thank me after everything I've done to you? The best thing that ever happened to you was Mary, and I nearly ruined it for you, first by coming back and again by letting you stay here and take care of me when I should have sent you home the moment I--"

"You don't know what the hell you're talking about. The only reason I went back to her in the first place was because you were so damned determined to make it happen. You sent me back to her because you think that's what I want. No matter what I say, you always think you know better. Well, I've got a news flash for you, Sherlock. This time, you're wrong."

Sherlock was painfully aware of the ways in which he had been wrong over the past few years, but this was not one of them. "Your misguided sense of duty to me kept you here after I was shot, but you were also punishing Mary for lying to you. I simply helped you admit that you wanted to forgive her."

"But I didn't. I can't."

"You don't mean that."

"Yes, Sherlock. I do. I agreed to go back to Mary because you had me convinced that I had to. It was never what I wanted. How could you think I would want to live with her after what she did to you? Mary knows better than anyone how much you mean to me, but she was perfectly willing to kill you to avoid facing me. And if you had died, she would have kept right on pretending. This is the woman you think I should happily spend my life with? And you think I'm delusional?"

Panic momentarily swamped Sherlock's ability to think. Everything he had tried to do for John was falling apart before his eyes. "You know that she never meant to kill me. You know why she did it."

"Yes, she did it to save herself. And you're still trying to make me forgive her. You are the most selfless human being I have ever known, and she is anything but. Which of you is the better person, Sherlock?"

Sherlock's failure settled into his chest with icy finality. John was about to lose everything good in his life because Sherlock broke everything he touched. "It's not me." Defeat drained all inflection from his voice. 

"When you say shit like that, it makes me want to beat the hell out of whoever made you feel this way. You're the best man I will ever know, and if it's the last goddamn thing I do, I'm going to make you believe it. You really think the only reason I want to be with you is for the bloody adrenaline rush. The thrill of the chase. I do love that, Sherlock. I won't deny it. But I'll still be right here if you never take another case for the rest of our lives. None of it matters without you."

Shadows shifted at the edge of Sherlock's vision. He caught the scent of tobacco smoke and lamp oil. Whisky and dust. The floor tilted beneath his feet. "You don't know what you're saying."

"I never wanted you to know what it was like for me when I thought you were dead. When you came back, I let you believe I was pissed off because I was afraid of what would happen if you found out that I couldn't make it without you. I was too busy thinking about myself to even consider what it must have been like for you, coming back expecting everything you had risked your life to save would be waiting for you, and finding out that nothing was the same. The way you accepted Mary. The way you threw yourself into the wedding stuff. You thought it was what I wanted, so you did everything you could to make me think you wanted it, too. I should have realized what you were doing, but I didn't."

Sherlock could see so clearly now why Mycroft had warned him not to reinject himself into John's life. "You would have been fine if I'd stayed away. You should have told me to go to hell when I walked into that restaurant. You still should."

"Ask your brother how fine I was. Ask Greg Lestrade. He took my gun away the night you jumped. They both thought I wanted to top myself, and they weren't wrong. And it never got any better. I've lost people I cared about before, Sherlock. People I loved. But I never wanted to just give up until I lost you. If Mary hadn't come along when she did, I know I would have."

Comprehension slammed into Sherlock with a fury that stunned him. If Mycroft walked into this room right now, he would not live to leave it. For his brother to have kept him in the dark about what was happening with John was beyond the worst Sherlock had ever imagined him capable of, and there would be no coming back from it. "John..." But there were no words.

"There's nothing in the world I wouldn't do for you, except walk away. That, you can't make me do. Not now. Not ever. I need you to believe that. And there's something else you need to believe. If you don't stop the drugs, you're going to kill yourself, and you'll take me with you. That might be a cheap shot, but it's the truth, and you need to keep that picture in your head the next time you think about reaching for a syringe. You might just as well stick it in my arm and be done with it."

What horrified Sherlock even more than John saying such a thing was that Sherlock believed him. "I can't promise not to die."

"You can promise not to die of stupidity." John softened the words with a shaky smile. 

Sherlock found himself returning John's smile with one made fragile by a terrifying spark of hope. "What are you going to do?"

"I'm going home to have a long talk with Mary. None of this is going to come as a surprise to her. She's been telling me something like it for days now. She's the mother of my child, and I will always treat her with respect, but I don't love her. She was a lifeline, and I think I was the same for her. When she met me, she was looking for a new life, and I happened along at the right time. That's no basis for a lifelong commitment. It's over, and we both know it." He studied Sherlock carefully for a moment. "Are you okay?"

_When the gods want to punish us, they answer our prayers._

Until the moment he had seen Mary with John for the first time, Sherlock had never allowed himself to imagine what his life would be like without John in it, even though he had known that was how it had to end. But facing the reality when it had come so unexpectedly had been the hardest thing Sherlock had ever had to do, and he'd done it badly. The way he had fallen so easily back into the drugs in a vain attempt to stay in control was proof of how little he resembled the man John thought him to be. That John now seemed determined to throw away his own future to come back to Baker Street felt like the cruellest of cosmic jokes. But in spite of everything, Sherlock wanted to believe that it could actually work. Wanted it so badly that it terrified him.

It was the fear that made him keep pushing. "You owe Mary the chance to make it up to you." 

"You are the most stubborn human being I have ever known."

"Listen to her, John. Please. For me." 

"I will listen to what she has to say, but it won't change how I feel. And I meant every word I said tonight. Do you believe me?"

"I wish I didn't." He didn't think he had said it out loud until John's stern look told him he must have done. "I believe you."

John pushed himself up from the chair as if the words he was about to say to Mary had physical weight. "I'll stop and ask Mrs. Hudson to bring you some towels and a pot of tea. Go to bed and get some sleep. I'll be back in the morning, and we'll see what you remember about Moriarty. It's time to get that bastard out of our lives for the last time." 

Sherlock sat motionless until he heard the front door close behind John. Then he got up and walked to the window to watch him get into a taxi before he took the phone from his coat where John had hung it on its peg. 

Mycroft let the call ring an uncharacteristic five times before he picked up. His standard greeting grated more than ever. "What is it now, Sherlock?"

Sherlock made his voice low and urgent. "I need to see you immediately. I've remembered something, and it can't wait."

Mycroft's sharp intake of breath would have gone unnoticed by anyone but Sherlock. There was a moment of hesitation that was equally unexpected. "I will send a car for you." He ended the call.

Sherlock took the phone from his ear and stared at it. He didn't know which was worse: his suspicion, or the fact that his brother had just confirmed it.

* * *

End of chapter six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Apologies for the long wait. I hope the payoff was worth it. Endless thanks to 7PercentSolution, emma221b, Jolie Black, and Anyawen for their limitless patience and encouragement. ~ GW**


	7. The road to hell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Update 5 September 2016 
> 
> Please accept my apologies for the long wait. I've been working on the story for months now, but it just wasn't saying what I wanted it to say. So, I dumped about 20k words and started over. This is the result, and as much as I regret making you wait so long, I'm glad I waited until the story I wanted to tell finally appeared on the page.
> 
> There were aspects of series 03 that I loved, and a lot that I didn't. Not everything made sense. Not everything was what I would have wanted to see happen. This story starts at the end of HLV, and ignores the trailer that's been aired for series 04. This is purely my take on where Sherlock and John's relationship is headed. I hope you'll let me know what you think of my solution.
> 
> The entire story is complete, and I will be posting a chapter every week. The chapter count is still not finalized because I tend to change the chapter breaks during final beta. The chapter I'm posting today will be followed by another on Friday, and that will become my scheduled posting date.
> 
> Ghyll

Mycroft ended the call with his brother and let the hand holding the phone drop to his lap. Matters were moving much more quickly than he had anticipated, and it had begun with another phone call less than an hour earlier from Lady Elizabeth Smallwood. She had wanted to meet with him privately, at her home. There had been no need to ask the reason. There was only one topic so personal that not even the security of their offices would suffice. 

Mycroft was well aware that Lady Smallwood felt some responsibility for Sherlock's current predicament. She had, after all, engaged Sherlock to address her personal issues with Magnussen. As far as she knew, it was the sole reason Sherlock had been at Appledore. Mycroft was perfectly willing to let stand her ignorance of Sherlock's existing obsession with Magnussen. It would not do to dilute her sense of obligation. Her remorse made her an even stronger ally in the only battle Mycroft cared about right now. She had been the lone dissenting voice when Mycroft had persuaded the others that the best alternative was to send his brother into exile on a virtual suicide mission. The video broadcast offered her a legitimate reason to overrule them all, and she was eager to take advantage of it. She had made only one demand in their meeting this morning, and that was for Mycroft to give her his word that he had had no involvement in engineering the broadcast, which he had been able to honestly confirm. 

Sherlock's pardon was all but assured now. Mycroft had been planning how and when to share that information with his brother when Mary Watson's call had rung through to his private mobile, demanding to see him at once. She was suddenly concerned that Sherlock, after all this time, was putting the pieces together, and Sherlock's call just now seemed to bear her out. Mycroft's unholy alliance with Mary Watson had been a desperate attempt to keep John alive until Sherlock's eventual return. It had been done with the best intentions, which seemed to confirm that the road to hell was indeed paved with them. 

He didn't believe in hell, or its counterpart, but the concept of unrelieved torment was entirely real and familiar.

He tapped on the privacy screen, and his driver lowered the panel. "Yes, sir?"

"Baker Street."

 

* * *

Mycroft glanced up at the windows of 221B when he got out of the car in time to catch a glimpse of Sherlock as he backed out of sight. When he reached the top of the stairs, he found Sherlock glaring at him from his chair, still wearing his coat and scarf.

"I thought you were sending a car," he snapped.

Mycroft paused just inside the door. "I was in the neighbourhood," he began, and was met with a derisive snort.

"Clearly, since we only spoke eight minutes ago. And why was that?"

Mycroft crossed to John's chair and sank into the worn cushion. "I have good news and wanted to share it in person, since you ask. Lady Smallwood has seen to your pardon. You are officially absolved of all charges."

Sherlock's steely gaze narrowed with suspicion. "In exchange for what? I've made no progress on the case."

This needed a careful blend of truth and fiction which he had had insufficient time to prepare. "There is no case."

Sherlock's brow creased in confusion, and he leaned forward so abruptly that Mycroft flinched. "What are you saying?"

"I am saying that the source of the video has been identified, and it has nothing to do with Moriarty or his network. It was perpetrated by someone on the inside who hoped that suspicion would fall upon me. The threat has been dealt with. You are free to resume your life."

Sherlock sank back, fingers drumming rapidly on the arms of the chair. "If there's no case for me to solve, then why am I being pardoned?"

"Because your future value continues to outweigh the havoc you create. And because Lady Smallwood feels responsible for having involved you in the Magnussen business."

Sherlock's gaze sharpened, full power deduction centred on Mycroft for a long moment. "Yet she initially agreed to my exile. What changed?"

"Circumstances. The fact that such a hoax was engineered by someone in a position of trust has provided the ammunition she needed to force the outcome she had wanted all along. Call it assuaging her guilty conscience, if you like. Call it good fortune. Just accept it, and move on." He pushed up from the chair with effort, suddenly weary to his bones. "Now, if you don't mind, it has been a very long day."

"Sit down, Mycroft." The words fell between them like a gauntlet.

Mycroft resumed his seat, unsurprised by the absence of any sign that his brother might be grateful for his efforts. "Please be brief."

Sherlock responded with the expected sneer. "Easily done. You are to stay out of John's life, and mine, permanently. No interference of any kind, under any guise or motive. At the first whiff, I will make it my life's work to sabotage you at every turn. I will hack my way into your business and use it all against you in ways that only I can do. I will be your worst enemy, and you will never see me coming." He leaned closer, hands braced on the arms of his own chair. "Look carefully into my eyes, Mycroft, and understand that I mean every word."

It was far worse than he expected. No recriminations. No demand for an explanation. Banishment. Irreversible exile. "I have no doubt that you mean it. I have heard it before, little brother, from men who had far more ammunition to wield against me than the sins you've catalogued for me your entire life. Sins, I might add, that were largely committed in your name. Your pardon came at a similar price, if you intend to hold that against me as well. I know better than to expect gratitude."

"For what? You lied to me the entire time I was away. You let me believe John was fine when he was anything but. As for the pardon, you did everything in your power to have me sent on a suicide mission rather than have my crime taint your reputation. I'm not an idiot, a fact you seem to forget on a regular basis. And don't think for a moment that you've slipped the noose. I may not have put it all together quite yet, but I will. There's something about you and Mary Watson that I'm still sorting out. When I do, we'll talk again." His lips tilted up in a mockery of a smile. "Trust me." He got up and walked to the window, his back pointedly turned. "Now, get out."

Every instinct argued against letting this go. Sherlock was perilously close to the whole truth, and Mycroft was desperate to throw him off the scent. So desperate that the urge to do it now kept him frozen in place while his mind raced at light speed. Sherlock would not expect him to leave quietly. Doing so could well increase his brother's suspicion. But there was equal danger that Mycroft might inadvertently provide a fragment of data that would give it all away.

Quite unexpectedly, John Watson's voice popped into Mycroft's head. 

_Don't speak. Just leave._

Mycroft had no choice but to agree. He rose and walked out of the flat.

* * *  


 

The skill that had saved her life so many times over the years, more than her fabled marksmanship or her steely nerve, was her ability to read people at a glance. Since childhood, she had been able to measure the value of a friend or the threat of an adversary with speed and accuracy. She could tell instantly if her parents were angry with each other, or with her. She knew when to stay out of someone's way, or when to ask a favour. And she was almost never wrong. Even her rare mistakes were valuable because each one revealed a new factor to watch for, and added to her arsenal. Her siblings thought she was the favourite because she always got what she wanted. She simply knew how and when to make her demands, and when to stay silent. It was as natural as breathing, and it had only improved over time. Her colleagues half-kiddingly accused her of being able to read minds. 

That was before she had met John Watson.

Mycroft had told her when he put her on this assignment that she was expected to leave as soon as Sherlock returned, and she had agreed without question. She would have scoffed at the idea that she would ever consider giving up her career to spend the rest of her life playing house. But she had made that commitment without all of the facts. Had she known that she would be hand-holding a man who was grieving someone who was much more than a friend, she might have recognized the trap in time to avoid it.

The only men in her life who had become important to her had been exactly like John, but not in character, or appearance. They had each belonged to someone else, and there was something in her that had always found the unattainable to be irresistibly attractive. John's devotion to a man he believed to be dead had confounded her, at first. And then, it had fascinated her. She should have recognized the effect it was having on her and backed away, told Holmes that he could keep his fee, and run in the other direction. Instead, she had burned every bridge behind her, and the ones in front of her were quickly disappearing.

And she had done it to herself. Painted herself into a corner that had Mycroft Holmes planning her exit, John pulling away from her, and Sherlock seemingly on the brink of becoming the most dangerous adversary she had ever faced. If she couldn't find a way to convince him that she was John's only chance for happiness and divert him from working out the alliance she had with Mycroft, it would all be over.

John had been talking to Sherlock in his sleep more and more lately, and it was clear to her that she was running out of time. 

The look on John's face when he walked into the flat tonight told her that it was now, or never. 

* * *  


Taxis had recently passed into the category of luxury items in the Watson family budget, but John was granting himself an exception because there was no place short of 221B that still felt like home. 

When he and Mary had first started seeing each other, he had let her believe that his aversion to the iconic black London taxis had been about the expense because it was less awkward to have her think he was cheap than to admit that he still couldn't bear to be in one without Sherlock. If she had drawn any conclusions from the fact that he had hailed one for the first time the night Sherlock interrupted their engagement dinner by rising from the dead dressed as a French waiter, she had never let on.

But she was very good at hiding the truth, or maybe he was an even greater idiot than Moriarty had said that night at the pool. Maybe people like them could spot stupidity in people like him with one practiced glance. Maybe his gullibility was as obvious as the yellow light on the roof of a taxi. 

But Sherlock had believed her, too. In spite of everything she'd done to both of them, Sherlock wanted him to stay with her. But all of the rationalizations Sherlock had come up with over the past six months, wearing John down with the sheer relentless weight of persistence, could never balance out the moment she had pointed a gun at Sherlock's chest and pulled the trigger. Sherlock seemed incapable of grasping that simple fact. John had seen that tonight. And if there had been any doubt in John's mind that Sherlock was not hearing him, the man's last words to him tonight made it clear. Give Mary a chance to explain, he'd said, steadfastly ignoring that there WAS no explanation that John would ever accept.

Mary had dinner waiting for him when he walked in. She helped him out of his coat and practically frogmarched him to the table when he tried to tell her that he wasn't hungry and that he wanted to talk, not eat. He had sent her a text from the cab to that effect, in fact. 

"We can do both. I'm starving, and you haven't had a proper meal in a week. Sit." She was still smiling, but her eyes had cooled noticeably.

"I think you know it's not going to be that kind of talk." 

She put down her fork and let the smile drop. "I know that you've been put through hell for most of a year now, and I'm responsible for a lot of it. But I hope you're not blaming me for all of it."

John pushed his plate to the side and rested his arms on the table in its place. "It's not about assigning blame. It's about correcting a mistake. I thought I could live with what you did. I was wrong."

"You're not talking about my past, are you?" 

"No." He had meant what he said about her past. It was the present he could not forgive. "It's about Sherlock."

She made a short sound that could have been a laugh. "When has it ever been about anything else?"

"You made it about him the second you pulled that trigger."

Her eyes hardened, and then filled with tears. "What do you want me to do, John? I can't take that back, no matter how much I wish I could. I love you, and I love Sherlock--" Her voice cracked apart on his name.

"And for reasons I will never understand, he still loves you. But I can't." He had never put that into words, even in his own head, until this moment. 

Mary pulled in a sharp breath, and quickly looked down. "What are you saying?" When she looked up at him again, her cheeks were streaked with tears.

"I'll stay until the baby is born." He would support her and the baby, of course, and he wanted to be part of his daughter's life. He just could not pretend to love her mother. It wouldn't be fair to any of them.

She swiped at the wetness on her face with both hands. "Sherlock won't want you to do this, John. You know that. He won't let you."

"He's been trying to make me stay with you since you shot him. It was literally the first thing he said when he woke up. So yeah, I expect he'll keep at it, but it won't change how I feel. I grew up knowing my parents hated each other and were only staying together for me and my sister. I'm not going to do that to my daughter. It's a waste of life."

"You don't hate me, John. You hate what I did. Sherlock knows you better than you know yourself, and he believes with all his heart that you belong with me."

"He doesn't know me as well as he thinks." Starting with not understanding what would happen to John when he jumped off that roof, because John believed now that Sherlock had truly had no idea then, and still didn't.

She took a shaky breath. "He knows you're in love with him."

The shock was physical, like touching a live wire. It was a lie. An outrageous, self-serving lie, and he was instantly furious. "That's what you think, isn't it? All this time. That's why you tried to kill him." He was on the edge of shouting, hands clenched into fists.

His fury seemed to make her calm. "It doesn't matter what I believe, John. Sherlock believes it. He wants you to stay with me because he knows he can't be what you need him to be."

"Is that what you've been telling him?" It would explain so much. So fucking much. It had to come from her because if Sherlock had really believed that before, he would not have faked his suicide in front of him. If he believed it now, it was because Mary had convinced him.

"You said you don't understand why he keeps pushing you back to me. This is why, John. It's obvious to everyone but you. They all think you're in love with him. All of your friends. Think about it."

He was shaking his head, but it didn't dispel the images flooding his mind. The two years Sherlock was 'dead', and the way Greg had hovered over him that first night. Greg had taken away his gun because he'd been worried that John would use it on himself. And Greg had found him at Barts, thinking about going off the roof. No one understood that it was guilt, not love. But how would they be expected to know that?

Mary placed her hand over his clenched fist, and he looked up at her. "John, I'm not trying to upset you, but you need to accept that he believes he's doing this for your own good. He doesn't want to hurt you. He's trying so hard not to."

Tonight, when Sherlock had sat so quietly, letting him ramble on about leaving Mary. He'd listened to John, and sent him home to her. The look on his face that John had tried to interpret. He recognized it now. It was pity.

"I'm sorry, John. I promised I wouldn't tell you, but--"

He stood up so abruptly that the chair tipped over, and Mary gasped in surprise. The image of Sherlock and Mary, discussing him like this. The thought of Mary making him look like a pathetic fool in front of the only person on earth whose opinion mattered. He was speechless with rage. He had to get out of here, but there was nowhere to go. Not Baker Street. Not now. Maybe not ever--

Mary gasped, and there was an edge to it that made him look hard at her face. When he recognized what he was seeing, his instincts pushed the fury aside. "What's wrong?"

Mary gripped the edge of the table with both hands and looked up at him with wide eyes. "The baby--" 

It took the ambulance seven minutes to arrive. The medics had few questions, and they were at the hospital less than ten minutes later. John held her hand in the ambulance, bathed in guilt. When they arrived at King's College, he stood next to the bed while a consultant young enough to make John feel ancient examined her. The memory of running into Mike Stamford in the park, the day he introduced him to Sherlock, popped into his head. 'Teaching now. Bright young things, like we used to be. God, I hate them!' He'd been talking about his students at Barts. Making small talk. An hour later, they had walked into the lab at Barts, and John's life changed forever. 

"Mr Watson, do you have any questions?" The consultant was looking closely at him, and his tone suggested it wasn't the first time he had tried to get John's attention. Mary was looking at him, too.

"Doctor Watson," he corrected him, but it felt stilted. "Will you be doing any more tests?"

Mary and the young man exchanged a look. The man cleared his throat. "Um, yes. We're taking your wife down to have an ultrasound done in a few minutes. Her cervix is effaced, but not dilated. There's no leakage of amniotic fluid, and no detectable contractions. We just want to make sure before we send her home." It all had the vaguely miffed sound of repetition.

He followed the gurney to the ultrasound room, and sat next to the bed as the technician smeared gel over Mary's distended belly. He had seen the images from scans Mary had had done during their separation, but this would be his first time seeing the live images.

He was completely unprepared for his reaction.

He had felt the baby move against his hand many times, and been nudged awake by the poking of tiny feet against his back. He knew the baby was real. But seeing her move on the fuzzy display screen, watching her clench her fists to her mouth protesting the push of the technician's wand, took his breath away.

Mary's fingers twined with his, and he looked down at his hand. When he met her soft, knowing gaze, he felt everything shift. Priorities reordered. This child did not get to choose her parents. She had not asked to be born to an assassin and a fool. 

"John, I'm so, so sorry."

He didn't believe her, but didn't matter because the truth that was moving on the screen made his own wishes irrelevant. He looked into Mary's eyes and saw them light with hope as his own flickered out. "I'll take you home."

 

* * *  


 

"There's no need for you to hover over me all day, John. I'm fine. The baby's fine." She was propped up in bed with the cup of tea John had brought up a moment ago. He was dressed for work, but seemed reluctant to leave, and it wasn't hard to read the guilt in his grim smile. She would have preferred actual concern, but it was a start. "In fact, I'm going to get up in a few minutes and have a shower. Go to the clinic, and stop worrying."

"Are you sure you're ready for that?" 

"I'm sure, and I'm going to take a nice walk afterward." 

John nodded absently. "Don't overdo it."

"I'll be careful." But she could see his mind was already elsewhere. It wasn't hard to guess where. "Are you going to stop by and see how Sherlock is doing?"

John looked at her sharply. "Until he's back to normal, yeah." He started for the door, then stopped. "I don't want you to talk about me to Sherlock." He met her gaze and held it. "Not now. Not ever again."

"I can hardly cut him off every time he mentions you." Which was virtually every other sentence.

"You know what I mean."

Of course, she did. "I won't discuss you and me."

He nodded and left without kissing her goodbye.

As soon as he was safely on his way to work, she pulled out her phone. Mycroft answered with his usual business-like detachment. She smiled into the receiver. "Plans have changed."

"Oh? In what way?"

"I've decided to stay in London."

There was a brief pause. "For how long?"

"Permanently, Mycroft. I need your help to stop the people who are likely to come after me. I can tell you who they are. That should help."

The pause was longer this time. "Why?"

"Because John wants me to stay." 

His distant tone turned icy. "We had agreed that you would not tell your husband you were planning to leave until the arrangements were completed."

"I didn't tell him. He wants me and the baby. That's all I need to know." 

"You seem to be overlooking one obvious obstacle. Sherlock, as you pointed out, may well be about to discover your mission. He will surely tell John. What do you imagine will happen when he does?"

"Let me deal with Sherlock." 

"I would advise you to choose your words more carefully."

"It wasn't intended as a threat, and you know it. Sherlock trusts me to take care of John. I'm simply going to make that work to our advantage."

Mycroft was in no position to argue, and they both knew it. She told him that she would be meeting with Sherlock at the first opportunity, and she would update Mycroft with the outcome. She promised not to reveal, or admit to, her alliance with Mycroft. He reluctantly agreed to let her stay. For now.

"We will revisit this arrangement in a few weeks. Or sooner, if your pursuers should happen to turn you up." There was a touch of hope in that last bit that he clearly intended her to hear.

She sent a text to Sherlock, asking him to call her. Then she got out of bed to get ready for the most important meeting of her life.

 

* * *  


 

The clinic was mercifully crammed with patients when John arrived for work. The very last thing he needed this morning was time to think. A steady stream of normal people with fixable problems would keep him from dwelling on the total absence of both in his own life.

He considered leaving his phone on in case Mary needed him, then turned it off for the same reason. He got a text notification the instant he turned it on at six o'clock as he was leaving for home. He had decided to call Sherlock instead of checking up on him in person, simply because he had no idea how to retract everything he'd said to him last night. But it seemed Fate had decided to force his hand. The text was from Sherlock.

There's no case. The video was a hoax.

He didn't bother to reply because it would just give Sherlock the chance to tell him to go home, and there was no bloody way that was going to happen. Not with what this was likely to mean for Sherlock's reprieve. If there was no case, there was no need to keep him in England, and worse, no way for Sherlock to redeem himself by solving it. If they tried to send him away again, it would be over John's dead body. 

He found Sherlock stretched out on the sofa in a black suit, eyes closed, hands folded on his chest like a corpse in a coffin. John stopped and waited for those hands to rise with Sherlock's next breath, suddenly irrationally convinced that they would not.

"Didn't you get my text?" Sherlock asked imperiously, and John relaxed.

"Not until I was already halfway here," he lied with the confidence of one not being observed. "How do you feel?" 

Sherlock rose to his feet with convincingly fluid ease. He tugged at the hem of his jacket, brushed invisible lint from his sleeves, and squared his shoulders. "I'm fine. Memory's all sorted. The video was a hoax. Mycroft stopped by to tell me that my pardon has been approved. I expressed the appropriate gratitude and told him to stay out of my life." 

All of this was expelled at Sherlock's customary speed without pause for breath. John gave his head a shake and held up one hand. "Hold on. How do you know it was a hoax?"

Sherlock stepped across the coffee table and headed for the kitchen. "Tea?" he called over his shoulder.

John caught up with him as he was setting up two mugs. "Sherlock, look at me." Sherlock complied with a put-upon sigh. John leaned in close and examined Sherlock's pupils, then stepped back satisfied that there were no signs that the sedatives were still in play. "How do you know it was a hoax?"

Sherlock turned back to the tea preparations, talking to John as he placed a tea bag in each mug and closed the box that must have come from Mrs Hudson's kitchen. "One of Mycroft's enemies. Someone who thought it would look like Mycroft trying to save me. Obviously, whoever it was doesn't know him very well."

"You didn't ask the name?"

"Doesn't matter." He turned and rested his left hip against the worktop. "There is no case. Moriarty is dead."

John frowned at the clipped delivery. Sherlock could out-terse anyone, but this was not just terse. It was rapid fire sentence fragments that would have had John looking for needle marks, if not for the normal pupils. "You're still pardoned, even though the threat wasn't real?"

Sherlock gave him a narrow look. "Is that relief, or disappointment?"

"Don't be an arse. I just want to make sure nobody's going to show up here with handcuffs to haul you back to the plane."

"I am officially pardoned. And you are officially reconciled with Mary." 

Instantly furious, he spit the words, "Did she call you?"

Sherlock sniffed. "I don't need an interpreter, John. It's written all over your face." His eyes narrowed. "And why would she call me?" He seemed genuinely confused.

Without bringing up points from his conversation with Mary that he had no intention of ever discussing with Sherlock, there was no believable explanation for his anger. He shoved it back, and forced himself to calm down. "Forget I said that. You just surprised me. I should have known you'd figure it out." The lie seemed to work.

"You're not moving back here."

It had sounded like an order, and John's hackles tried to rise once more. "Not at this time."

Sherlock gave him one of his rare, true smiles. "Not ever. I told you it would work out." He turned back to his tea preparations.

Sherlock was clearly pleased by this turn of events. John should be feeling relief. He was not. "Sherlock, I meant every word I said last night. It's just that Mary had a health scare, and we went to A&E to have her checked out. She's okay, and the baby's fine, but--"

"You must be very pleased." He handed a mug to John and sipped from his own, watching John over the rim.

"You're not going to let me explain, are you?"

"No explanation is necessary, John. You've been under a great deal of stress. I understand completely."

John set his mug down on the worktop. "It wasn't about being stressed, dammit. I meant every word, but..." But what? He'd meant it, but now he didn't because he was embarrassed about being found out? No, wait. Not found out. Misunderstood. He--

Sherlock put down his own mug and strode out to the sitting room. John followed, still searching for the words he wanted to say. He found Sherlock putting on his coat. "Where are you going?"

"I wasn't expecting company. I have an appointment. Finish your tea, if you want." He turned on his heel and walked out of the flat.

John followed, but took a detour through the kitchen to turn off the kettle, purely out of habit. It was enough of a delay that Sherlock's cab was pulling away from the kerb when John came out of the front door. 

* * *  


"I think that fella there is tryin' to get yer attention, mate."

Sherlock didn't turn to look. "He can catch the next cab."

The cabbie met his eyes in the rear view mirror. "You sure 'bout that address?"

"I'm sure."

Mycroft would realize he'd left the flat before long, but clearly hadn't been expecting him to do so. There was no surveillance van out front to follow him, which meant they would have to try tracking him on CCTV. Sherlock smiled, and mentally wished them luck. 

Mary had met him this morning at a cafe near the Watsons' home to tell him the good news. She told him how excited John had been to see the baby on the scan for the first time. She was so relieved that she couldn't wait to call and tell him how much she owed him for all his help and support in getting John to give their marriage a chance.

It was interesting that the very outcome he had worked for could produce such mixed emotions on his part. He absolutely accepted that John was meant to be with his family, and now it seemed John was no longer resisting that role. Mary said she had seen him transformed by the image of his baby on a display screen. The concept of fatherhood was too far outside Sherlock's area of experience to be a useful measurement, but he could appreciate its potential from a clinical standpoint. The survival of the species depended upon it, so he could understand that it must be very strong. Instinctive for someone like John. There was no downside to this result. No reason to feel pushed aside. None at all.

Be careful what you wish for.

Sherlock was free to do as he pleased now. Smoking in the sitting room. Avoiding food until he felt like eating. Leaving his experiments wherever he chose for as long as he could stand the stench, which was considerably longer than John had ever been willing to do.

And he could indulge his flirtation with illegal substances at will.

Wiggins would be surprised to see him. Or, perhaps surprise was the wrong word. He would soon find out.

* * *

End of chapter 7


	8. Six days

Insomnia had not bothered him like this in a very long time. Not since the first weeks after his return from Afghanistan. It had returned after Sherlock's suicide, but Mary had changed that. Now, she was the cause of its return. When he did manage to fall asleep, it was rarely for more than an hour at a time. Dreams woke him, and they were all variations of the same scene: finding Sherlock bleeding to death on the floor of Magnussen's office with Mary standing over him. In some of them, she aimed her gun at John and fired. In others, she ran from him. Occasionally, she would stay and beg forgiveness. The outcome was always the same. Sherlock died in his arms.

By the end of the first week, he was so exhausted that he had no choice but to write a prescription for sleeping pills. They kept him from dreaming, but left him groggy until noon. He compensated with massive doses of caffeine and ended up with tremors in both hands. 

He kept in touch with Sherlock by phone, although their conversations were brief. Sherlock assured him everything was back to normal, whatever that meant, and there was no need to keep checking up on him. John listened closely for any sign of drugs or illness, and found nothing he could identify as either. Sherlock never initiated the contact.

Until he did.

John turned on his phone as he walked out of the clinic, dreading this first weekend of his new life. The text notification ping was immediate.

Lestrade has a case. Meet me at Barts morgue after work if you are available.

He quickly hailed a cab and sent a response from the back seat.

Just got your text. Be there in twenty minutes.

Walking into the morgue was like coming home, and he entered the door wearing a smile that most normal people would find inappropriate, given the setting. Greg and Molly turned to him with identical frowns, and he wondered for a moment if they were more normal than he thought.

Greg, he realized, was actually looking past him. "Sherlock's not with you?"

John glanced reflexively behind himself. "Uh, no. He said to meet him here."

Greg swore softly under his breath and pulled out his phone. He punched in a number and held the phone to his ear, scowling at the ceiling as he waited. Then, "Where the hell are you? We're at Barts. Call me." He shoved the phone in his coat pocket.

Molly wasn't frowning anymore. She looked worried, and John's heart rate picked up. "What's going on?" His focus alternated between them, demanding a response.

Molly pressed her lips tightly. Greg lifted his hands and let them drop to his sides in frustration. "I called him this morning about this case," he tipped his head at the body on the table behind him, "and he told me he was too busy. Then he sent me a text two hours later to bring the crime scene photos and meet him here at four. I've been calling him since five and it goes straight to voice mail. Did you talk to him?"

"He sent me a text a few hours ago, but my phone was off. I didn't get it until I left the clinic. Does he have enough information on the case that he might have gone off to follow up a theory?"

"I told him I needed his help pinpointing where the kid went into the river. We had a case like this a few years ago- you remember- the young couple that were found tied together, and he did all that work on calculating the tides and currents, and the stuff about the tree pollen and..." he wiggled his fingers, beckoning the memory.

"Diatoms," Molly supplied.

"Yeah, diatoms in the water. I figured he could do the same here."

John felt oddly relieved. "You know how he gets when he's working on a problem like this. Probably forgot we were waiting for him."

Greg and Molly exchanged a long look, and Molly nodded. Greg crossed his arms and shift awkwardly before he looked over at John. "Uh, Molly just told me that Sherlock was in hospital for an OD."

John frowned and looked quickly at Molly who lifted her chin but said nothing. "He's fine," John said to Greg, gaze lingering on Molly for a few seconds longer. "I might have recommended against going out on a case the first day back, but he can handle this. What? You're afraid he's out getting high?" 

"He's never done this before. I'm just saying, given the circumstances..." Greg trailed off and exchanged another look with Molly.

She picked up the thread. "We're just worried about him, John."

"It wasn't what you think. I can't believe I'm saying this, but--"

The door swung open, and Sherlock breezed into the room. "Saying what?"

Greg crossed his arms. "You're two bloody hours late and you turned off your phone."

Sherlock dismissed that with a flick of his hand and stepped deftly around them on his way to the autopsy table. "I stopped by the victim's home and interviewed his parents."

"Without me?" John's words overlapped Greg's incredulous "On your own?"

Sherlock had bent down over the body, nose inches from the sodden clothing. He raised up to give John a puzzled frown. "You were at work." He returned to his examination. "It turns out that I am capable of conducting an interview unsupervised." 

"I wasn't suggesting that you couldn't. I just-- Why did you ask me to come here?"

Sherlock straightened and turned to face him. "Unless you were also late, you've been here for more than an hour. You haven't looked at the body?"

"No, I, uh--" He looked at Greg. "We were waiting for you. What was I supposed to be looking at?"

Sherlock cast his eyes at the ceiling. "The injection site." He fumbled with the cuff buttons on the victim's right arm and pushed the sleeve back, then bent down with his magnifier. "Nothing here. Nevertheless, it was an overdose." He moved quickly to the opposite side and repeated the process, speaking as he worked. "His parents don't believe he ever used drugs, but parents rarely do. They showed me his computer, and there is ample evidence in his social media posts that he was thinking strongly about it. He fell from Southwark bridge six hours before you found him. CCTV will confirm the time and location." He stood up and gave John that triumphant half smile. "Would you care to confirm my findings?"

John walked over to examine the victim's left arm. The skin was discoloured from its time in the water, but the needle mark was still visible on the inside of the elbow, just at the crease. "Molly?" It was her morgue, after all, and John imagined she was feeling as superfluous as he was.

She shook her head. "I'll photograph it when I do the post mortem. And I'll test for drugs, of course." She glanced up at Sherlock. "If you're finished?" 

That last bit was said with a tinge of sarcasm that said Molly was angrier than she looked. Sherlock either didn't notice, or felt like pushing his luck. "Confirm if you must," he said with another dismissive wave.

Greg cleared his throat. "I'll see about getting the CCTV footage." 

Sherlock seemed bent on insulting everyone. He favoured Greg with a condescending smile. "Very good, Detective Inspector. Do let me know what you discover." He squared his shoulders and addressed the room. "Now, if there's nothing else I can do, I'll be on my way." He paused with his hand on the door. "Apologies for the wait," was uttered with a nakedly artificial smile, and the door swung shut behind him.

John caught up with him as he was hailing a cab.

"Sherlock, just hold on a minute." 

Sherlock glanced down at him. "Share a cab?"

John gripped his arm and turned him around. "You didn't call me down here to look for needle marks. What the hell is going on?" 

Another eye roll. The cab pulled up, and Sherlock opened the door. Sherlock slid into the backseat.

John exhaled through his nose, got into the cab and slammed the door harder than he meant to. It drew an arched eyebrow from the driver.

Sherlock directed the driver to Baker Street and sat back. "Would you have preferred that I didn't include you? I thought you would appreciate the diversion."

"Of course I wanted to be included. But two minutes of looking for needle marks that you obviously didn't need me to find for you isn't quite what I had in mind. I'm not sure you're even ready to be out working a case so soon after--" And suddenly, it made sense. "You thought I would tell Lestrade you couldn't come. That's why you didn't tell me until you were already working the case."

Sherlock turned to look out the side window. "I don't need your permission."

John frowned at chill that suddenly fell between them. Sherlock's shoulders were slightly hunched, and his jaw was clenched. He was clearly upset. "I wouldn't have warned Greg off, by the way, but I am a bit worried that you might be rushing things. With everything you've been through--"

Sherlock leaned forward and rapped on the panel separating the driver from the passengers. "Pull over." 

John's mouth fell open in bewildered shock. "Sherlock..."

Sherlock icy glare silenced him. He opened the door as soon as the cab stopped at the kerb. "Go home, John. I need some air." He got out and strode down the crowded sidewalk toward Baker Street.

John stared after him until the cabbie pointedly cleared his throat. "Where to?"

"London Bridge station," he bit out. He would take the train home. It might give him enough time to get his temper under control before Mary could fire it up all over again with that eternal smile.

 

* * * * 

It had been a test. What he had been hoping for when he'd texted John was a flat 'no'. Work would have been a good excuse. Saying that he had to get home to his wife would have been even better. How a man with John's intelligence and dedication could still be so easily distracted by his lunatic former flatmate's demands for attention frankly disappointed Sherlock. Deeply. More than that, it was proof that John still seemed to harbour the ridiculous belief that Sherlock was somehow worthy of his loyalty and protection when every moment of their time together proved otherwise. 

He should never have come back. No matter what he did now, the damage seemed irreversible. He had managed to taint the one good thing in John's life, and he had no idea how to put it right.

Head down, lost in thought, he didn't notice the man sitting on the step in front of 221 until he was within a few paces of the door. He stopped in front of Speedy's, trying to connect the face with a name. The man stood up when their gazes met. 

"You look ready to spit nails. Did I come at a bad time?" Jared Bahnsen dusted the seat of his jeans with both hands, then held the right one out to Sherlock who was now moving toward him again.

Sherlock took in the man's rumpled khaki safari jacket, and the duffle parked next to his feet. He ignored the offered hand. "Why are you here?"

Bahnsen chuckled. "Just as cordial as I remember. That's strangely reassuring." At Sherlock's stony silence, he smiled. "Gonna invite me up?"

Sherlock glanced pointedly at the duffle as he stepped up to the door and slotted his key into the lock. "I'm not taking in lodgers." He opened the door and stepped inside.

"Good. I'm not looking for a room," Bahnsen shot back, and closed the door behind himself.

Bahnsen followed him up the stairs, then stood in the middle of the living room glancing around. "Can't say I like what you've done with the place." He dropped the duffle on the floor and rubbed his arms, shivering. "Did you forget to pay the energy bill? It's like a meat locker in here."

Sherlock hung his coat and scarf on the hook in the entry hall. "It's January." He walked into the living room. "Why are you here?"

Bahnsen walked to the fireplace and crouched down to fiddle with the gas jets. A moment later, he struck a match and flames hissed to life. "I'm in London for a while. Thought we could catch up." He stood up and turned to face Sherlock. "And you can take that board out of your arse. Your brother didn't send me. He wouldn't even know I'm here if you hadn't made me sit out front for hours."

There was little question that Mycroft would have seen the CCTV footage by now. Bahnsen was right about that. Unless of course Bahnsen was lying and Mycroft actually had sent him. Bahnsen had kept Sherlock from using drugs when he first came back from Serbia to find John getting engaged to Mary. It was entirely possible that Mycroft would think the current situation might have the same outcome, and send Bahnsen in for a repeat performance. "If you've come to conduct another tedious intervention, you've wasted a very long trip."

Bahnsen dropped into John's chair with a sigh. "It wasn't quite as long as you might think. I've spent the last few months in Paris."

Sherlock walked to his own chair and sat studying his visitor. "Your dishevelled appearance would say otherwise. Did you swim across?"

Bahnsen chuckled and looked down at himself appraisingly. "I've been doing some freelance field work that demanded a low profile. I could use a shower, that's true." He looked around the room again. "I'd ask to use yours, but I'm not likely to find a towel or a bar of soap in the place. You moving out?"

"I was thinking about it."

Bahnsen nodded and turned his attention to the fireplace. After a long silence, he asked quietly, "Do you need one?"

What he did not need was the rush of memories Bahnsen's presence was churning up. "Do I need one what?"

Bahnsen looked up, all business now. "An intervention." At Sherlock's silence, he leaned forward, forearms resting on his thighs and his hands clasped earnestly between them. "Sherlock, I didn't come here to stitch you up. And I'm not working for your brother. It was an impulse after a long job that didn't work out. From what I'm seeing, things aren't working out for you, either. I'm about as anonymous an ear as you're ever gonna find. Unload on me, and maybe the needle won't seem quite as attractive as I think it does right now."

This was not the first time Bahnsen had popped into his life. Mycroft had brought him along to Serbia when he'd come to rescue Sherlock from prison, and then left Sherlock at the hospital in Greece in Bahnsen's charge. A few weeks after Bahnsen had escorted Sherlock back to London, the man had reappeared in an alley where Sherlock had just made his first drugs buy in five years. He'd given Sherlock his word that the information would stay between the two of them, and it had. Bahnsen had talked him out of using the drugs, and walked out of his life for the second time. 

Bahnsen and John were the only two people he knew who shrugged off Mycroft's attempts to intimidate them. Sherlock sat up straight, rattled by the connection his brain had just made between two people who had nothing whatever in common. Bahnsen was not John's equal, not in any category. No one was. 

"When I said 'unload on me', I meant out loud."

A smothering weariness settled over him, and suddenly all he wanted to do was close his eyes and shut out the world. "I don't need your help. I need to sleep." He pushed up from the chair, swaying slightly until he found his balance. "If you think that leaving in the middle of the night will damage your standing with my brother, you can have the sofa until morning. If I were you, I wouldn't bother." He walked back to his bedroom and closed the door firmly behind him.

* * *  


 

He woke in the dark, face down on the mattress, with no memory of having fallen asleep. The dream that had jarred him awake was just another variation of the one he'd been having since he'd started coming round from the overdose, and it grew with each iteration. There was only one constant.

John was dead, and it was his fault.

The manner and cause of death varied, but the outcome never changed. 

John was dead because Sherlock destroyed everyone who had the misfortune to care about him. It was as inevitable as the sunrise. 

In spite of everything Sherlock had done to hurt him, John refused to give up. He was putting his future in danger every time they were together, and he was risking his marriage and his child in some misguided, hopeless effort to save Sherlock from himself. 

The dream showed him over and over, in ways that resurrected every near miss he had ever witnessed or imagined, how John could literally lose his life, but what it meant was that John's life might as well be over because he cared more about protecting Sherlock than with living it.

Sherlock understood that feeling very well, as much as he pretended otherwise. What he could not grasp was how a man like John could waste it on someone who did not deserve it. Sherlock wondered how much of John's loyalty was inspired by guilt. John thought he needed to protect him. He'd proved that he was willing to kill to do it, and now he was forfeiting his marriage for the same reason. As long as John believed that Sherlock needed him, there would be nothing to stop him.

John would not stop unless he believed that Sherlock didn't need him, and it would take irrefutable proof.

He wanted to get up and play his violin, or pace the flat, neither of which was an option with his uninvited guest occupying the sitting room. The smothering intrusion was making it impossible for him to think. He needed space. 

Bahnsen was ensconced in Sherlock's own chair by the fire, clicking away on a laptop when Sherlock strode into the kitchen. He looked up, much too brightly for five o'clock in the morning. "Going out?"

Sherlock walked out through the kitchen door without a word. When he stepped outside into the crisp pre-dawn air, he pulled in a deep breath and started walking. 

He didn't try to avoid the CCTV cameras, at first. The thought of Mycroft sitting at his monitor trying to anticipate him and losing sleep in the process was perversely satisfying. That was until it occurred to him where his body had decided to take him.

Three cab rides, doubling back on his route, and a few stops that took him in the front door and out the back of nondescript pubs before he made it to Wiggins' current base of operations. Wiggins had dropped the half-hearted disapproving looks after the first two visits. Tonight, he was wearing his businessman's smile. "Got a new batch for you."

In the first rush after he released the tourniquet, he heard John's voice in his head, as usual, but the anger was absent this time. John was disappointed, and that was always worse. 

* * * *  


Jared had finally dozed off just as the sun was coming up. When the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs jerked him awake, he found himself squinting into the glare of full sunlight pouring through the window. 

Sherlock strode across the room to loom over him. "You can leave now."

Jared swung his feet to the floor, scrubbing at his face with both hands. "Mind if I wake up first?" He squinted up at Sherlock. "Have a nice walk?"

"Tracking me on CCTV?" Sherlock indicated the closed laptop on the coffee table.

"Nope." He stood up and stretched the kinks out of his back. "I'm going down for some coffee. Can I get one for you?" He looked directly at Sherlock's eyes for the first time. "I see you've enough stimulants on board, How about some nice hot milk?"

"Don't forget to take your bag with you. You're not coming back."

Jared had already started for the door. He stopped and turned to face Sherlock. "If you're sure that's what you want, I'll leave. But keep in mind that your brother will have my replacement here before I finish my cuppa."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "You said he didn't send you."

"No, I said I wasn't working for him. If I was, do you think I'd have let you go pay a visit to your dealer?"

"It was therapeutic, not recreational."

Jared snorted. "That's a fine bit of rationalization. Did it work on your former flatmate?"

"Leave." Sherlock turned and started for the kitchen.

Jared reached out and took hold of his left arm. "Wait." He let go when Sherlock spun on him with eyes blazing. "Just hear me out. Five minutes. If you still want me to go, I will."

"Three."

He would have been happy with two. "Your brother agreed to my conditions, or I wouldn't be here. I don't report to him. Anything you and I talk about is none of his business. He does think that I'm going to keep you away from the drugs, but I think I just proved that's not the case. I knew what you were up to when you left, but I'm smart enough to know that trying to get between you and your next fix would just drive you underground. Notice I'm not wrestling you into a taxi to haul you off to rehab."

"That would be tremendously ambitious of you."

"I'm not here to stop you, and I'm not a boundary for you to test. I'm just a friend who will help you keep your brother from going off the rails trying to get you back in line. Think of me as an acceptable alternative."

"Or I could just leave."

Bahnsen shrugged. "That's always an option. Why not give my offer a try first?"

Sherlock studied him for a long moment. "What are you getting out of this?"

Jared had been waiting for this question. The truth was not an option. "I know how your brother operates when it comes to you, and I didn't like your chances if I had left him to his own devices. Let's just say that I prefer more even odds."

Sherlock stiffened to his full height. "I can handle my brother."

"I know that, but why not let me run interference?" He could see Sherlock considering it. "Give it a week, and if you still think it would be easier without me, just say the word and I'll be on the next plane."

"One week." Sherlock strode through the kitchen and headed down the hall. A moment later, the bedroom door closed.

Jared stepped into the short hallway and frowned at the door. That had been far too easy. Underestimating Sherlock was always a mistake, one that his brother seemed determined to keep making. Sherlock was allowing him to stay because he'd found a use for him, and it wasn't likely to be the one Jared had floated. 

One week. That was all the time he had to find out what was really behind this tailspin that had Mycroft Holmes worried enough to trust Sherlock's life to him, and fix it.

* * * *

Sherlock largely ignored him for the next two days. Jared got his meals at Speedy's or the kebabs shop around the corner, and ate them alone. Sherlock drank tea and hovered over his laptop when he wasn't pacing the floor. From what Jared could determine, he wasn't using.

All attempts at conversation were met with stony silence. The third night, Jared was coming up the stairs with a bag of takeaway when his silent flatmate came bounding down toward him. Jared stopped on the landing. "Going out?" To his surprise, he got a response.

"I've been asked to consult on a murder investigation. You might find it illuminating."

He set the bag on the step. "Lead the way." But Sherlock was already down the stairs and out the front door. 

The cab ride was another long stretch of silence, but there was a slightly different feel to it. The opposite of being ignored, Jared had the distinct impression that he was being carefully but surreptitiously observed. It was progress, of a sort.

The cab slowed, and Jared looked up to find the road ahead filled with flashing blue lights and clusters of by-standers. Sherlock directed the driver to stop halfway up the block, and they walked through the crowd up to the taped off perimeter. Sherlock lifted the tape and held it for Jared, then followed. None of the uniformed officers stopped them to ask for identification, and Jared noticed a few icy glares aimed at Sherlock.

The first person to acknowledge their presence was a silver-haired man in an overcoat who turned to give Sherlock a tight smile that vanished when his gaze landed on Jared.

"Who's this, then?"

"He's with me," Sherlock said in a tone that clearly meant to close further inquiry.

"That only works one time, Sherlock. I need to know who you're bringing to my crime scene."

Jared stepped forward and extended his hand. "Jared Bahnsen. Just a friend of Sherlock's, but I was military police until recently. I know how to stay out of the way." He shook the man's hand.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade," the man said, and turned immediately to Sherlock who was crouched over a man splayed out on the pavement face down in a splash of blood and brain tissue. 

Jared looked up at the nearest building and saw officers on a balcony three stories up. "He jumped?"

Sherlock stood up and looked at Lestrade. "Which flat?"

Jared followed in Sherlock's swirling wake, up three flights of stairs and down the hall to an open door. 

The walls and ceiling were covered with blood in a pattern that Jared recognized as arterial spray, the source of which was obvious.

A man who looked to be in his early thirties lay in the middle of the sitting room floor, both hands covered in blood and still clutching his throat which was slashed so deeply that the fingers were buried in raw flesh. His blue eyes were wide open and staring.

"Murder suicide?" Jared said to Sherlock's back. 

Sherlock walked out on to the balcony and waved Jared over to join him. "Look down."

Jared did. "He's right where he would have landed after jumping from this spot."

Sherlock nodded, looking down also. "But the fall didn't kill him." He turned to Jared. "The blood will prove to be a mixture of both victims. This," he gestured at the spray on the outside of the glass door and on the balcony railing, "is from the man on the ground. His killer is in the sitting room." He walked back into the flat, and Jared followed.

"How do you know that?"

Sherlock was already heading into the hall. Jared was frankly getting a little weary of playing catch up, but he suspected that was precisely Sherlock's point.

"I'll show you." 

Sherlock walked out to where DI Lestrade was standing next to the first body which was now in a body bag on a stretcher. The man's throat was now visible, and slashed from ear to ear. 

Sherlock and Lestrade were discussing the results they expected from the autopsy. From Lestrade's comments, it was clear to Jared that he had already reached the same conclusion as Sherlock, and it made Jared wonder why he would have called in a consultant. But then the next words he said cleared that up.

"I told you it wouldn't be worth your time."

Sherlock huffed. "It's been a slow week. Find me something interesting."

"Nice meeting you," Jared said to Lestrade and got a nod in response. 

Sherlock was hailing a cab, and this time Jared refused to sit in silence. "You weren't asked to consult on this. You volunteered."

Sherlock didn't look up from his phone screen. "If you'd rather stay home next time, just say so."

Jared's smile went unnoticed. Home. "Not a chance."

It was as if a switch had been thrown somewhere. Sherlock picked up the takeaway bag on his way up the stairs and dropped it on the kitchen table. "If you heat that up, I'll help you eat it."

Over the next two days, Sherlock stopped treating him like part of the furniture and the frosty atmosphere in the flat warmed. A bit. The boundaries were still there, and Jared occasionally tripped unknowingly across one that earned him an icy stare. He learned to tread cautiously. But the agreed upon week was rapidly running out.

The day before Jared was meant to leave, Sherlock spent the afternoon tapping furiously at his laptop while Jared tried unsuccessfully to engage him. Just as he was about to give up and pack, he saw Sherlock sit back and turn to look at him for the first time all day. "The rent is due tomorrow. I'll accept a cheque for your share."

Jared ventured carefully, "Mind if I ask what changed your mind?"

Sherlock shrugged and returned his attention to the laptop. "My brother's anxiety is still influencing his actions. As long as your presence here keeps him out of my way, I am willing to continue our arrangement."

"I hope you don't expect me to pay half of the rent to kip on the sofa." He didn't intend it to sound like a proposition, but the look he got from Sherlock told him that it had. "No, I mean--"

Sherlock waved him off. "There's a room at the top of the stairs. You can use that for as long as you're needed."

It had taken six days. Create a universe, or get invited to stay at Baker Street. It was a toss-up as to which was the greater feat.

* * * *

End of chapter eight


	9. That was unexpected

When Greg texted him out of the blue to meet for a pint on a Tuesday afternoon, he didn't say why, but John suspected it was about the Moriarty video. After the initial flood of coverage when it had appeared on every screen in the country on New Year's Day, the subject had abruptly disappeared from the news. Just this morning, the media had reported that the broadcast had been an elaborate hoax, and that the software flaw that had permitted it had been identified and resolved. The explanation seemed sufficient for most people, but Greg would think there had to be more because it was so closely tied to Sherlock. John saw no reason not to relay what little Sherlock had told him, but he wasn't sure how to phrase it. Sitting next to Greg with his first pint, John had been half listening as he planned his response to the question he thought was coming. That was until the mention of an unfamiliar name filtered through.

"...can't hold a candle to you when it comes to keeping him in line. Donovan's still touchy around Sherlock anyway, and this guy is--"

"Sorry, what?" John cut in. 

"Jared Bahnsen. That's his name, isn't it? He's started showing up at crime scenes, and..." Greg finally seemed to notice John's blank look. He set down his pint and turned to face him. "You do know him, right?"

John smiled because it had to be a joke. "Who?"

"Ah." Greg's lips formed a thin line. "It never crossed my mind that you wouldn't."

"Sherlock brought someone on a case?" 

Greg turned back to the bar and picked up his pint. He took a long pull before he answered. "This is a little awkward."

It wasn't awkward, it was surreal. "What did you say his name is?"

"Bahnsen."

"Who is he?"

Greg shrugged. "You know Sherlock. He didn't exactly introduce the guy. I still wouldn't know his name if he hadn't introduced himself. When he said he was former military police, I just figured you'd sent him along to keep an eye on Sherlock when..." He caught John's eye roll. "Yeah, that wasn't very likely, was it?"

"Not really." Until this moment, he would have bet almost anything that Sherlock would give up The Work before he'd consider bringing someone other than John into it. 

"You don't know him, then?" Greg asked again, apparently hoping for a different answer. 

"Nope." He refused to ask for a physical description because the question sounded too odd in his head. "What's he like?"

"Mid-thirties. Aussie. About Sherlock's height, but a lot bulkier. 'Military police' fits." He looked over at John with dawning recognition. "Or special ops."

John saw where he was going with this and shook his head. "If Mycroft had sent him, Sherlock would have tossed the guy through the window."

"Yeah, you're right." Greg sipped thoughtfully at his pint for a moment. "There's something else." He pulled out his phone and scrolled to the screen he wanted, then handed the phone to John. "I got that this morning. It was a murder/suicide that I would never have called Sherlock in on."

_You need me on this case. Text address. SH_

John handed back the phone. "He was bored." 

"Maybe," Greg looked at the screen again then tucked the phone back in his pocket. "It was a nothing case, but from the way he was flitting around the scene, you'd have thought..." He trailed off.

Showing off. That's what Greg was trying to say. Sherlock was preening for this guy, and it had bothered Greg. That's what this little chat had been about. "Look, I don't know why Sherlock didn't tell me about this, but I'm sure it's fine. Mycroft has checked him out, you can be damn sure of that. And if he's not worried, we shouldn't be either."

Greg levelled his gaze, fixed it on John's. "That's not what's bothering me. Especially now that I find out you didn't know."

John felt a tug in his chest. Greg was a good friend, but like everyone else, he refused to believe there wasn't more to John's relationship with Sherlock than there really was. "It's all fine, Greg. I don't have the time anymore, and Sherlock's used to having someone around to be amazed by his brilliance. If Bahnsen's doing that for him, it will save you having to take up the mantle."

"You're probably right." But Greg did not look particularly reassured.

John drained his pint and got up from his stool. "I'll see if I can persuade Bahnsen to do his part keeping Sherlock civil as well as flattered."

"Thanks." Greg's smile was feeble and brief. "I'll let you know how it works out."

John hailed a cab in front of the pub and directed the driver to Baker Street. He didn't need an excuse for dropping by, but he found himself trying to come up with one.

As he was climbing the stairs to the flat, he heard something that stopped him in mid stride.

Laughter. Full throated, two male voices. One of them very recognizable. The other, just as deep, was unfamiliar. John stood stock still for a long moment, trying to remember if he had ever heard Sherlock laugh like that. He turned on the landing and saw that both the kitchen and sitting room doors closed. Not a client. That was obvious from the laughter. The new friend, then. That broke his paralysis and sent him up the remaining stairs.

He hesitated again at the door, unsure whether to knock, or walk in. Sherlock solved the dilemma by swinging it open, still chuckling in the aftermath of whatever the hell had been going on a moment ago. "Come in, John. There's someone I want you to meet." He stepped out of sight, leaving the door ajar.

John took two steps into the sitting room and stopped to get his bearings. Sherlock had sat down in his usual chair. The man sitting in John's chair stood up and came toward him, hand outstretched in greeting. 

"Jared Bahnsen. And you must be John Watson." He took John's hand in a firm grip. "I've heard a lot about you. Have a seat. I'll pull up a chair." He waved John generously to his own chair and picked up one from the table between the windows and brought it over to the client's position. He turned it backwards and sat with his arms crossed on the seat back.

Sherlock, John noticed, was watching Bahnsen. John cleared his throat, and realized the instant Sherlock turned that gaze on him that he knew exactly why John was here.

Bahnsen jumped into the silence. "You're probably wondering what I'm doing here," he said affably. "I'm sure he's never mentioned me." Bahnsen tipped his head in Sherlock's direction.

"No, I can't say that he has."

"Jared is staying here for a couple of weeks. He's on holiday from Paris." Sherlock and Bahnsen shared a glance that John couldn't interpret. 

Staying here. That was unexpected. The fingers of his left hand twitched a warning, and he consciously relaxed them. "I ran into Greg this afternoon, and he said you've been working together."

Sherlock sat back. "So you decided to come by and see for yourself."

"I was in the neighbourhood." It was an intentionally transparent lie, and it got the intended smirk from Sherlock. An appreciative smirk that warmed his eyes. And then John saw Bahnsen from the corner of his eye, watching them, and the moment evaporated. John broke eye contact with Sherlock and glanced around the room. "I see you've unpacked."

Sherlock's expression shifted instantly to neutral. "Yes, since it seems I'll be staying on after all."

He'd done more than unpack. The sitting room looked as if he'd never left. Even the dust seemed to have been put back in place. It looked like home again, except that it wasn't and never would be again. He quickly gave that thought a vicious shove. There would be no logical place for Bahnsen to sleep but in John's old room. It bothered him more than he wanted to think about. "So, how do you two know each other?" He was looking at Bahnsen when he asked the question, but he sensed an immediate change in Sherlock's mood. 

Bahnsen must have noticed it, too. His eyes flashed to Sherlock, then back to John. "I was part of the extraction team. In Serbia."

John looked to Sherlock for elaboration. None was forthcoming, and he turned back to Bahnsen.

"I stayed with him in Greece, and then came with him back to London." He and Sherlock exchanged another indecipherable look.

"Greece?" It was like pulling teeth.

Sherlock huffed. "A hospital, John. Dehydration. Just Mycroft being his ridiculously over-protective self." 

"Well, it was a bit--" Bahnsen's tone said he was about to reveal something indiscreet, and Sherlock froze him with a look that John knew very well. Bahnsen accepted Sherlock's warning with a nearly imperceptible nod, and his gaze didn't come back to John until Sherlock acknowledged it. "You know Sherlock. He's got more lives than a cat." 

"Yeah, I've seen him use up a few of them." He'd meant it as a quip, not the jab Sherlock's eyes instantly said he'd heard. Bahnsen could joke about it, but John should have known better. And he would have, if they'd been alone. Change the subject. "Have you got any cases on now?"

"We had one this morning." Bahnsen smiled at Sherlock. "He wrapped it up ten minutes after we arrived. I'm just along for the ride."

"I know the feeling." 

Bahnsen chuckled. "Don't sell yourself short. Your presence is sorely missed. Sergeant Donovan, in particular, wanted me to tell you that."

John snorted. "I'm sure she was joking."

"Sergeant Donovan has no sense of humour," Sherlock said smoothly, and once again traded looks with Bahnsen.

So, this was what it must have felt like to the Yarders when he and Sherlock used to carry on their wordless communication. Excluded. Irrelevant. It was bloody rude. John cleared his throat and stood up, glancing at his watch. "I have to be going. It was good meeting you, Jared." 

"Same here." Bahnsen raised up enough to reach John's hand and shake it. "Stop back any time."

He was fighting the urge to tell Bahnsen that he wasn't aware he needed an invitation, but Sherlock beat him to it. "John knows he's always welcome here."

Not at the moment, he didn't. "We'll catch up soon," he said to Sherlock, then nodded at Bahnsen and walked out of the flat.

* * *

 

Sherlock stood up and walked to the window as soon as the front door closed behind John. Jared put the desk chair back where it was and settled into the chair John had just vacated. "So, that was John."

Sherlock shot him a look that said 'obviously', then turned back to the window.

"Why didn't tell him I'm here?"

"Why would I?"

"Seriously?"

Sherlock sat down at the desk and opened his laptop. 

Jared watched him click away at the keyboard, clearly assuming the subject was closed. It wasn't. "You wanted to see his reaction when he found out on his own."

The keys went silent.

"That's it, isn't it? And that's why you suddenly found my lame joke so hilarious." Jared had wondered at the time if Sherlock had somehow gotten high in the five seconds it had taken him to walk from his chair to the window. It made sense now. He'd spotted John coming up to the door. "Did you get the answer you were looking for?"

Sherlock gave him a bored look and resumed typing. "I assume it's an occupational hazard, looking for hidden meaning in innocuous events."

"I'll take that as a 'no'." He got up from John's chair and started for the kitchen. "Next time, give me a head's up so I know how to play it." He took a bottle of beer from the fridge and opened it.

Sherlock continued banging away at the keyboard. "Your only role here is to keep my brother out of the way. Do not attempt to expand upon it." 

Jared drained the first beer and started on a second as he watched Sherlock from the kitchen. He had just learned something that Sherlock's brother had artfully omitted in his discussions with Jared. Sherlock was struggling with an addiction all right, but not to drugs, and Mycroft bloody well knew it. Jared had just spent a mere five minutes watching Sherlock and John together, and it was blindingly obvious to him. Mycroft had the advantage of years observing them, and with a hell of a lot more insight about Sherlock than Jared would ever have. Mycroft hadn't sent him here to distract Sherlock from the drugs. Jared was meant to distract him from John Watson.

 

* * *

John didn't get five paces away from 221 before a familiar black sedan appeared at the junction ahead. It stopped at the kerb with the passenger door open. John marched up to it and got in.

"I would not want you to misinterpret the situation you just encountered, John," Mycroft said smoothly as soon as John slid into the backseat.

"Just when I start to think you can't surprise me anymore, you prove me wrong."

Mycroft lifted one eyebrow.

"You know about this Bahnsen, obviously. There's no chance that you haven't vetted the hell out of him, or he wouldn't be here. What I want to know is why you're letting him stay."

Mycroft's eyes hardened. "Sherlock is allowing him to stay. As for why I am not stopping it, please remember that I asked you to look after my brother, John. You let me down."

Suddenly, it all made sense. "You didn't just vet Bahnsen, you PUT him with Sherlock."

Mycroft's placid look was mute confirmation.

"Does Sherlock know Bahnsen's working for you?" But even as he asked, he knew the answer. Of course, Sherlock would have spotted Bahnsen as a plant. So, why invite him to move the fuck in?

"He is not my employee, John. I told him that Sherlock has recently fallen back into old habits, a situation with which Bahnsen has dealt successfully in the past. He will not be reporting to me in any way. He is here as Sherlock's friend. Nothing more." 

"Sherlock is not using drugs." 

Mycroft's smile was smug. "Perhaps you missed the signs. I assure you, he is."

Could he really have been so distracted that he'd missed something as obvious as this? So self-absorbed that he couldn't see past his own bruised ego?

"Don't be too hard on yourself, John. Sherlock is quite good at hiding his condition. Bahnsen has the advantage of objectivity and is therefore harder to fool."

The roiling resentment curled his left hand into a tight fist. "Why are you telling me this?"

"To make certain you don't interfere. Sherlock knows why Bahnsen is here, and he has obviously chosen to accept the help on offer. It is a temporary arrangement which I expect you to support."

He scoffed at that, a short sharp exhale through his nose. "You have a very exaggerated impression of my influence."

Mycroft smiled thinly. "Nevertheless, it would be in Sherlock's best interests if you would refrain from expressing any misgivings."

John put his hand on the door handle. "Sherlock doesn't need my approval, but I'm not going to lie if he asks."

"Do try to maintain a level of objectivity, Dr Watson. This is not a competition."

John got out of the car and closed the door with emphasis. The car pulled away. 

Anger would have been easier to process. He could have walked it off before he took the train home. But he wasn't angry. Not with Mycroft, or with Sherlock. He was concerned. Disappointed that Sherlock hadn't felt he could come to him about the drugs. Frustrated at not being allowed to help. Anger would imply that Sherlock not telling him about Bahnsen had been a violation of some rule of conduct between them. The very idea was absurd. He was not angry.

By the time he walked into his house, he was a seething crapload of not-angry with a pounding headache. Mary noticed, of course, and he instantly made it worse by rebuffing her attempts to find out what was wrong.

"There's nothing to talk about." It came out more harshly than he'd intended.

Mary's soft concern evaporated. "If you don't want me to ask questions, don't make it so bloody obvious that you're upset."

It was a sharper tone than he'd heard from her in a long time. And there were tears sparkling in her lashes. Not very chivalrous to make the mother of your child cry, no matter how easy it was to do lately.

He apologized out of guilt, and she accepted stiffly. "Dinner will be ready soon," she told him, and left the room.

John walked to his armchair and dropped into it. What felt like seconds later, Mary was gently shaking his shoulder. "You fell asleep, John." 

She was in a conciliatory mood over dinner. She smiled at him, and sat next to him on the sofa with her head resting against his shoulder. 

The following morning, he made a point of kissing her goodbye as he was leaving for the clinic. It was something most couples seemed to do naturally, but they weren't most couples. Mary seemed pleasantly surprised by the gesture. To John, it felt just as awkward as ever, but he smiled back. 

There was a lull after lunch, and John sat at his desk scrolling through emails on his phone. He hadn't posted anything to his blog in months, and the comments had dwindled to nothing, so he was surprised to see a new notification.

The comment was from a name he remembered as one of the blog's once-devoted followers, and it was about Jared Bahnsen.

_The blog is back! There are new entries on The Science of Deduction! Looks like the new guy has picked up the slack. Good stuff!_

John stared at it, dumbfounded. Against his better judgment, he opened the link to Sherlock's blog. There was no mention of a new section in the menu, and his gut slowly unclenched. SPAM. He'd fallen for SPAM. And then he scrolled down to the comments.

There were two entries, each followed by scores of enthusiastic replies. Summaries of two cases including the murder/suicide Lestrade had mentioned. Bahnsen introduced himself in the first one as Sherlock's friend, on holiday for a few weeks and just 'along for the ride'. Bahnsen's style had a Spartan, utilitarian quality. Concise, but detailed enough to be interesting. Sherlock could not accuse him of romanticizing the facts, that was certain. The commenters seemed to approve, and John flicked the screen closed.

Sherlock probably didn't even know Bahnsen had done it. Anyone could add comments to the blog, just by subscribing to the site. It did not mean Bahnsen was now Sherlock's blogger, no matter what his follower seemed to believe. 

Still, it stung. There were four more notifications over the next hour, ecstatic responses to the comments. John muted his phone and stuck it in the desk drawer.

He was determined not to walk into the house with a chip on his shoulder for the second time in two days, but Mary could read him too well. She didn't comment this time, but he could feel her studying him when she thought he wasn't looking. 

They watched telly after dinner, sitting side by side on the sofa. He had placed his phone on the cushion next to him with the screen facing up, and several more notifications came in, all for his blog. He finally gave up and opened the most recent.

"Anything interesting?" Mary asked casually.

Another rave review. He kept his voice neutral. "Just SPAM on my blog." He locked his phone with a flick and stood up. "I think I'll go up and read for a bit." 

"Are you feeling all right?" She was studying him openly now.

"I'm fine. Just not in the mood for telly." He was nearly at the top of the stairs when he heard her call to him.

"John! Sherlock's on the news!"

He started back down and heard her add, "And who is THAT?"

He stopped as the drone of sound he'd been ignoring all night snapped into focus.

"...mystery solved. The question we can't seem to get answered is what's happened to Holmes's long-time partner-in-crime-solving, John Watson. His replacement won't tell us, and Sherlock himself remains as mysterious as ever. Time, as they say, will--"

The woman was cut off in mid-word. John came down the remaining steps and saw that Mary had paused the broadcast. She turned to look at him. "Who IS that?"

John walked right up to the screen. "Sherlock's new flatmate." He heard her gasp softly.

John's attention was riveted to the frozen image. A narrow street. Cobblestones and crime scene tape. Lestrade's back turned to the camera, but eminently recognizable. Sally Donovan scowling at him. Sherlock and Bahnsen were in the foreground. In perfect focus. Sherlock with both hands in his pockets, his coat collar turned up. Turned slightly away from Bahnsen, but looking back at him. Bahnsen was facing the camera, but his focus was entirely on Sherlock. Raptly on Sherlock. Wearing a look that John had seen on his own face in images exactly like this one. Amazed. Awed. Mesmerized.

"John, who IS he?"

"A friend." He turned and headed back up the stairs, avoiding her eyes. He'd been replaced. Publicly. There was no other way to see it. And Mary knew exactly how it was making him feel. He'd heard it in her voice when she asked who Bahnsen was. Pity, and maybe a touch of vindication, because Sherlock had done the same thing to her life that Bahnsen had just done to John's. Strolled into it without warning and upended everything he'd thought until now was the one truth he could always trust.

 

* * *  
end of chapter nine


	10. That's the bad feeling I was talking about

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a bonus chapter. I wish I could promise to post more often than every Friday. :-D Chapter 11 will be up very early on Friday.

Sherlock spent most of the next day on the sofa, so motionless that Jared dropped a book at one point to see if he would react to the bang. It earned him a weary sigh, but not a twitch of movement.

The soft ping of a text notification moments later had an entirely different outcome. Sherlock picked up the phone, glanced at the screen and was on his feet, in motion toward the kitchen. "We have a case." And with that, he disappeared into the bedroom.

As was becoming routine, Sherlock shared nothing of where they were going or what they expected to find. Lestrade had a case. That was apparently all he needed to know.

It was nearly dark when the cab pulled into a large car park in front of a warehouse that backed up to the river. There was a cluster of police vehicles down near the water's edge, and Sherlock headed off in that direction leaving Bahnsen to pay the cab fare and chase after him, which was also becoming routine. He found Sherlock crouched over the body of a man who was dressed in an overcoat and an expensive three-piece suit. The body was unsullied from the shoulders down. From the neck up, it was hard even to tell his race.

Lestrade was standing back a few paces, arms crossed. He glanced up and nodded at Jared. Jared walked over and joined him. "What have we got?"

"A bad feeling," Lestrade said distractedly, eyes on Sherlock. 

Sherlock moved to the opposite side of the body to push up the cuff and pull down the top of the leather glove on the body's right hand. It revealed pale white skin ringed with vivid red welts. It made sense that the man would have been restrained. He could hardly have submitted willingly to what was done to his face.

Sherlock continued his examination without comment. He tugged the glove from the stiff fingers and revealed a bloody pulp where the nails should be. Jared winced with the empathy of one who knew exactly what that felt like, though luckily his own torturer had been interrupted before he'd done more than one finger. The right index, which was currently throbbing at the memory.

Sherlock moved to the mutilated face and pried the jaw open. He looked up at DI Lestrade who was now leaning over his shoulder, observing. "His tongue is missing," Sherlock commented with clinical detachment. "He was beaten with bare fists, and his nails were pulled out." Sherlock stood up and his gaze fell on Bahnsen. "Would you like to have a closer look? I believe this is in your area of experience."

"From the receiving end, unfortunately," Jared commented, and crouched next to the body. The man's face was covered with deep cuts so close together that the skin looked as if it had been rubbed with a cheese grater, an image that made his stomach twist. The tip of the nose seemed to have been sliced off. The eyelids weren't spared, each having a horizontal slice that all but severed them. He didn't repeat Sherlock's prying open the jaws. He would take his word for the missing tongue. He stood up and found Sherlock and the detective watching him with identical crossed arms. "They wanted to inflict maximum pain without killing him."

"Until they got what they were after," Lestrade added. He held out a plastic evidence bag to Sherlock. "That's all he had on him."

Sherlock took the bag and frowned at the contents, a single slip of paper that had been torn from a larger sheet. He glanced back at the body. "I don't know this man."

Lestrade shrugged. "He seems to have known you."

Jared took the bag from Sherlock's hand and read the slip. All it contained was Sherlock's name, printed in pencil. He looked questioningly at Lestrade.

"That's the bad feeling I was talking about."

"We will see you at Barts," Sherlock said, and strode for the main road.

Jared gave Lestrade a weary look, and chased after the swirling coat.

Sherlock started talking as soon as Jared joined him in the taxi, but he seemed to be talking more to himself. It was an unbroken monologue summarizing his findings, and speculating that the level of damage inflicted suggested that the victim had professional training in holding up under torture, which further suggested that he was not the businessman he appeared to be.

Jared agreed, and Sherlock shot him a look that said he hadn't been expecting a response, nor asking for one.

This was Jared's first trip to Barts morgue. Not, sadly, his first trip to morgues in general. The quality of facilities he had seen all over the world ranged from squalid to cutting-edge (gallows humour intended), and he was mildly surprised to find that Barts fell near the top of that scale. The building itself had him expecting something more Victorian.

The young woman who greeted them seemed very surprised to see Jared, but she recovered quickly and introduced herself as Molly Hooper. She shot a glance at Sherlock who was ignoring them both. "If you wait for him to introduce you, you'll never know who anyone is." She said it with a teasing fondness that was followed by another glance in Sherlock's direction. This time, Sherlock was looking back, and Molly's gaze immediately darted back to Jared.

The blush made her look even younger, Jared thought. Smitten. And Sherlock has no clue. "I'll keep that in mind."

The body arrived a few minutes later, and Jared stood back to watch Dr Hooper work. She was professional and efficient, but not unaffected by the horrific wounds inflicted on the man on her table. Not squeamish in the slightest. Just one human feeling the pain of another. It must be a difficult thing to handle in her line of work, but she would be the type of person who would be more effective because of it.

Removing the victim's clothing exposed more deep cuts on the skin of his back and thighs, soaked with blood that was hidden by the dark fabric. Sherlock was right about the level of conditioning it would have taken to resist so much methodical savagery. "Fingerprints won't help," he said as he noticed Molly beginning to print the body's left hand. "If he's what I think, his prints won't be on file anywhere you have access to."

Sherlock's smile was barely a twitch. "You underestimate my level of access."

Of course Mycroft Holmes provided the information within thirty minutes. The victim was Michael Valentino, an American born in New York in 1975. He had indeed been with the CIA, but for the past six years only as a contractor. His mission in London was being disavowed by the Americans, who may or may not be telling the truth. When and how he had arrived in the UK was being investigated. His lodgings were also currently unknown.

Molly Hooper completed the autopsy and ruled the cause of death to be shock and blood loss. The manner of death, obviously, was homicide. By the time she had finished closing up the body, Sherlock received a call from his brother with an address. Valentino had taken a room at a bed and breakfast in Westminster near Regents Park.

Molly Hooper's eyes widened when he gave them the house number. The victim had been staying at 216 Baker Street. "Sherlock, that's practically next door to you."

"Across the street, actually." Sherlock's response was vaguely directed at her, but his unfocused gaze was not.

"You need to tell Greg right away. It can't be a coincidence." She had come over to stand directly in front of Sherlock.

"Tell me what?" DI Lestrade chose that moment to join them. 

"Molly is alarmed by the decedent's London address," Sherlock answered him, but he was looking down at Molly Hooper. He gave her a small, private smile before he turned to Greg. "My brother has turned up some background information," he said, filled Greg in on the rest. "His choice of lodging may be significant." 

"I would say so," Lestrade agreed. He pulled out his phone and walked a few paces away. 

"Sherlock, you need to take this seriously," Molly said quietly.

Sherlock ignored her. He was openly listening to Lestrade's side of the phone conversation, which had just included instructions to the party on the other end to send forensics to the victim's address. "Not until I see it first," he raised his voice to get Lestrade's attention. 

Greg lowered the phone. "I do know the drill, Sherlock. They won't go in until we get there." The emphasis on 'we' was clear.

Sherlock grudgingly accepted Lestrade's offer to drive them to the scene. It would have been a ridiculous waste of money to take a taxi given that the building was only two houses down from 221 on the opposite side of the street. As Lestrade had promised, the forensics team was waiting in their van out front. 

The victim's rooms were upstairs on the first floor facing the street, with an unobstructed view of 221's front door. Jared stood at the window, mentally gauging the suitability of this location for a sniper. "Not a coincidence," he said under his breath.

Sherlock was standing directly behind him, apparently following his train of thought as well as his gaze. "Are you referring to his choice of location, or the fact that he arrived in London on the same day as you?"

Jared turned to face him. "You're not suggesting he was with me."

Sherlock smirked. "Not at all. I was simply wondering which of us was his target."

Their search turned up nothing of value. Aside from toiletries in the bathroom, there wasn't so much as a suitcase. No clothes. No laptop. Nothing to indicate why he was here.

Sherlock turned to Lestrade. "I assume you're checking taxi records from this location. Contact me as soon as you have the results." He started for the door, then turned back to give Lestrade a narrow look. "Before you act on that impulse I see chugging its way to the surface, I do not need protection."

Lestrade glanced back at the forensics team working the scene, and lowered his voice. "You'll have to convince me because from what I can see, a man who had your name in his pocket and was watching your flat has been tortured for information that he seems to have given up. You don't think there's a good chance that whoever has that information will be coming for you next?"

"I'm hardly difficult to find, Lestrade. The address is on the website. And they obviously weren't concerned about leaving my name on the body." He quirked a very brief smile. "Perhaps they wanted to make certain that you would call me in on the case." 

Lestrade sighed at Sherlock's departing back and gave Jared a pointed look. "Watch him."

"On it," Jared replied and headed after him.

Sherlock was putting his phone back in his pocket when Jared caught up to him halfway down the block. "Do I need to point out that we're heading in the wrong direction?"

Sherlock raised his arm at an approaching cab.

"Where are we going?"

"We aren't going anywhere. You're going back to the flat."

"Not a chance." 

Sherlock shot him a vile look.

"You've obviously just figured something out. Who were you talking to on the phone?"

The cab pulled up to the kerb, and Sherlock got in. Jared slid in behind him before he could close the door. "Look, I don't mind working in the dark, but I'll be a lot more useful if you tell me what's going on."

Put-upon sigh. "We have an address from the taxi that took him there last night."

Jared stared at him. "How did you get that?" 

"A phone call."

"Shouldn't you tell Lestrade?"

"When there's something to tell him, yes."

"We're going in without backup."

Silence.

Jared gave up, mentally kicking himself in the arse for leaving his gun behind. 

* * *

London's convoluted layout was the product of millennia, and largely incomprehensible to even its lifelong residents. Jared was hopelessly lost by the time the cabbie pulled to the kerb at the address Sherlock had provided. The area appeared to be a mix of residential and light industrial, not well maintained, and almost totally devoid of functioning street lights. 

Sherlock got out and stood in front of a two-story brick building that looked like it had not been used for decades. The windows were boarded up, and the front lawn was strewn with rubbish. A faded estate agent's sign in the front yard was nearly obscured by weeds. 

"Are we going in?" He kept his voice low.

"Through the back," Sherlock replied and headed off into the side yard with Jared close on his heels.

The darkness back here was nearly total, and Sherlock quickly drew ahead of him, moving with the grace of an alley cat on familiar ground. Jared made an effort to catch up, and immediately felt something sharp jab into his right thigh. He swore softly and felt the warmth of blood on his fingers when he touched the spot. "Wait," he hissed in Sherlock's direction. 

The shadows ahead shifted, and he managed to make out Sherlock's silhouette as it vanished around the corner of the building.

Seconds later, he heard scuffling, a muffled groan, and the sound of a body falling. He broke into a blind run, turned the corner, and was instantly blinded by a brilliant light aimed directly into his face. His hands came up involuntarily, just before something slammed into his skull and everything went black.

* * *  
The murmur of voices. Male, American accents. Two of them. The dizzying sensation of the hard surface beneath him tilting and spinning, followed by the inevitable roll of nausea. Sherlock tried to hide his return to consciousness, such as it was, by keeping his breathing level and slow, but his heart was thudding painfully, begging for huge gulps of air. He fought the urge as long as he could.

The voices went silent when he finally gave in to his body's craving for oxygen. The audible intake brought footsteps rushing in his direction from some distance away. There was no point in pretending any longer, and he opened his eyes. The world took a vicious spin, and the nausea made him groan miserably in spite of himself. An instant later, he was gagging at the rush of bile that filled his mouth.

"Take it easy. That's it. Just let it out." A figure crouched next to him and hands turned him on his side. Denim clad knees avoiding the growing puddle of sick under his chin. The heaving slowed, and finally stopped. He was pulled upright, sitting on his butt, hands cuffed behind him, and his vision blurred with tears from the wrenching spasms in his gut.

"Get him some water." The speaker in his line of sight came gradually into focus. Military haircut. Dark eyes. Mid-thirties. Broad shoulders. large biceps. Black shirt. Smiling. 

A plastic bottle pressed to his lips, tipped up. Sherlock turned his head away. 

"It's water. Nothing in it. If you want to work the drugs out of your system, you need to drink." 

His head was forced back to the front and the rim of the bottle was pushed against his mouth. The water poured across his parched lips, and they opened involuntarily to drink it in. He drained the bottle and coughed. "What do you want?"

The man tossed the empty bottle on the floor and chuckled. "Not 'where am I' or 'who are you'?"

Sherlock cleared his throat, but it still felt raw. "What do you want?"

The man motioned to someone and a chair was dragged over. The man lifted him into it, pressing his bound hands painfully against the metal back. The man stood and crossed his arms. "You're the master of deduction. Dazzle me."

Dazzling was not on the menu at the moment. He could barely focus on the man's face. 

"No guesses? Okay, I'll give you a hint. I'm looking for someone, and you're going to help me find her."

Sherlock blinked to clear his vision. "You assume that I can."

"Oh, I know you can."

"But you don't believe that I will do so willingly."

The man seemed to consider that for a moment. "You know, that's a good point." He looked back to the right. "Maybe we should try asking him. What do you think?" He turned back to Sherlock. "My colleague doesn't think that's likely to work, but hell. Let's give it a try. Her true name is Allison Ahrens. American, five foot five. Fortyish, blonde the last time I saw her. Oh, and a hell of a good shot. She makes her living with it. Ring any bells?"

Sherlock managed to keep his face utterly still. "Sorry, no."

"That's disappointing, Sherlock. See, I know you're not telling me the truth. We've been watching Allison's former friends and colleagues for quite some time. A couple of weeks ago, one of them did something so noteworthy that we just had to find out what it was about. He engineered a national broadcast across the UK, a seemingly pointless little video. We convinced him to tell us why. He didn't have all the pieces, but he did lead us to you. And now you're going to lead us to her."

Pieces of a puzzle Sherlock didn't even know existed clicked abruptly into place. "I can't help you."

The punch was unexpected. Sherlock's head snapped sharply to the right and his mouth filled instantly with the sweet metallic taste of blood. The momentum tipped over the chair, and his head smacked the floor with stunning force.

The man crouched next to him. "You'll have to do better than that, my friend." He patted Sherlock's shoulder, then stood. "Rest up while you can. The longest it's ever taken me to break a man is 16 hours, but I've got a feeling you're going to make me work for this one."

* * *

end of chapter 10

  
**A/N - Chapter 11 will be posted on Friday.**


	11. No greater motive

Jared woke to a pounding headache, face down in damp, cold dirt. He turned his head and saw the corner of the building he'd been rounding when the lights went out. He was exactly where he had fallen. And he was alone.

He knew what to expect when he sat up. Dizzy, nauseated, retching bile. There was one advantage to skipping lunch. The thought of food sent his stomach into fresh spasms.

When he could trust his balance, he stood up to catch his breath, leaning against the brick wall of the building. There was a dog barking in the distance. A big one, from the sound of it. Guard dog? He discarded the thought because if there was one on the grounds, it would have made its presence known well before this. He pushed off the wall, but kept his hand in contact to keep his bearings in the dark. 

There was a wide metal door a few yards from the corner, but it was locked with a heavy chain and padlock. The windows were boarded up back here, just like they were on the front. He walked the perimeter, knowing he was alone but needing to be sure. When he reached the front corner where they had started toward the back, he stopped to ride out another wave of nausea.

Whoever had taken Sherlock had also taken Jared's mobile, and it took him ten long minutes to find a neighbour who would answer the door. No, he could not come in. The man would call 999 for him. He graciously allowed Jared to sit on his front steps to wait in the cold.

A single police car pulled up a short time later, and a pair of constables began to take his report. Everything changed when he told them who it was that had been taken.

Within minutes, the street was filled with police vehicles, flashing lights and sirens, and a growing crowd of neighbours who seemed to have suddenly regained their hearing. 

He was sitting in the open door of the ambulance with an ice pack pressed to the lump on his head when Lestrade pulled up. Mycroft Holmes was right behind him. Their grim expressions said it all, even before he began to tell them what little he knew. 

"What drew you to this location?" Mycroft asked.

"Sherlock got the address from a phone call. He wouldn't elaborate."

"I see." 

Jared felt the full weight of Mycroft's displeasure in those two clipped words. Mycroft had counted on him to watch Sherlock's back. He had failed. There was no excuse.

Lestrade accompanied Holmes to the now-floodlit area along the side and back of the building where the forensics team were working the scene. Jared was pointedly not asked to join them. They returned a few minutes later, and Mycroft walked past Jared without a glance.

Lestrade watched him go, shaking his head. He swore under his breath. "I should never have let Sherlock out of my sight."

"Yeah, well you're not the one his brother's going to blame," Jared jerked his chin toward the departing sedan. "If Sherlock turns up dead, I'll be right behind him." 

Lestrade looked grim. "Mycroft's not the one you need to worry about." He dug out his phone. "I have to make a call." 

* * *

Whatever they had injected into his neck as they were shoving him into the boot of the hatchback had kept him out until he woke up here with no sense of how much time had passed. He could be a few miles from where he'd been taken, or halfway around the world. There was no way to know.

The room sounded cavernous. His view of it was limited to the area immediately around him that was lit by a utility light suspended from a rafter high above. The floor and the only wall he could see were concrete. The gloom beyond the reach of the light made it impossible to make out anything else.

He was manacled between the wall on his left and a support pillar on his right with enough tension to keep his arms pulled straight out to his sides and make it impossible to ease the stress on his shoulders. In what had at first seemed an oddly humane gesture, they had him seated on a sturdy wooden stool. He had soon come to understand that the stool was for their comfort, not his. They worked as a team, one asking questions from a chair in front of him to watch his reactions, and the other seated behind him with full access to his back. It was an impressively efficient technique.

The first session had been a brief introduction to the process. The one who asked the questions communicated with his colleague by way of gestures and expressions. No verbal cues to warn Sherlock when the blade was about to slice into his flesh. There had been three sessions so far, and he was beginning to see the genius in this method.

The initial cuts had hurt, but not on a scale he would have considered torture. During the break between the first and second sessions, he learned why they had him manacled in this position. Every breath pulled at the skin of his back, tugging at the open wounds. Any shift in position trying to ease the pain in his wrists reignited the fire in his back. By the time session two had begun, every square inch of skin was sensitized and flinching at the faintest touch.

They were on a break now. His captors were standing a few paces away trading observations, clearly not concerned that he was listening.

"You ready to try it my way?" Ginger asked. Since they'd never bothered to introduce themselves, Sherlock had labelled them by their hair colour. There was virtually no other distinguishing characteristic. In height, weight, and attitude, they were practically clones.

Blonde snorted. "Not a fan of Russian Roulette, no. Hell, the odds aren't even as good."

"I'm game for a new approach," Sherlock chimed in, "if anyone's interested."

They both turned to look at him.

Ginger strolled over and sat down in his usual chair. "You know, I'm glad to hear you say that." He glanced back over his shoulder at Blonde. "See? He's on my side." He turned back to Sherlock with a smirk. "But then you don't know what you're asking for, do you?"

Sherlock smirked back. "I know you're wasting your time, no matter what you try. I don't know the woman you're after."

Ginger sagged back in his chair. "That's the best you can do? I gotta admit, I'm a little disappointed." He glanced back at his colleague, and Blonde walked to his spot behind Sherlock. Break time was apparently at an end.

The subtle clink of knives being sorted sent a shiver of anticipation down his back. He tried to turn his head far enough to look over his shoulder. "I hope you're sanitizing your instruments. I'd prefer not to--" The rest was swallowed in a gasp. Lit petrol poured down his back could not have felt much worse.

"You mean, like that?"

He could smell the alcohol now, sharp and stinging in his nose as it burned a trail over open wounds and seeped down inside his trousers where it turned to ice.

"It's decision time," Ginger said conversationally. "But in the interests of full disclosure, I think I should tell you what you're in for. My colleague here is worried for good reason. See, he hates waste, and there's an even chance that the drug we're going to give you will fry your brain before you can tell us what we want to know. And you will want to tell us, if you still can.". 

"Will I?" A cocky rejoinder through gritted teeth.

"Yes, my friend. You will. It's called K-POP, a combination of ketamine, sodium pentothal, and a secret ingredient developed by my employers' less ethical associates. They won't even tell us what it is, but we're very familiar with the effects."

"If it's so effective, why did you spend so much time flaying Valentino piece by piece?"

That earned him an eye roll. "You don't think you're surprising me with that, I hope. We put that note on his body for you," he made a voila gesture with both hands, "and here you are. And we did try the drug, eventually." He shot a look over Sherlock's head. "After some discussion."

A snort from behind him. "Yeah, and look how well that worked out."

Ginger tilted his head in grudging acknowledgment, then refocused on Sherlock. "It is a somewhat risky short cut."

This was punctuated by more clinking of metal against metal. Very sharp metal, Sherlock knew all too well. "I can't applaud your choice of words."

Ginger chuckled. "And here I thought you had no sense of humour. Not that kind of cut." He sobered. "Last chance, my friend. Tell me who she is."

"I don't know."

With no warning whatever, a line of fire streaked across his back from his left shoulder to his waist. Reflex jerked him upright like an electric shock, and he gasped in surprise as much as pain. He could feel the blood flowing down in a warm, stinging cascade.

Ginger leaned in. "Would you care to expand on that answer now?"

His heart rate was skyrocketing, and it was hard to pull in a full breath. "Sure. Let me walk out of here, and I'll think about it."

"Funny." 

"For the sake of argument, if I did know the location of this woman you're looking for, I would only consider revealing that information in a public place where I have a reasonable chance of walking away alive."

Ginger and Blonde exchanged a look over his head. Ginger shook his head and returned his attention to Sherlock. "Nice try. So, you're opting for the drug? I promise, you're going to regret it."

There was no amount of pain they could inflict that would make him give Mary up, but the drug worried him. Pain was a tangible thing that could be dealt with at any level, as long as his mind was still under his control. Take that away, and all bets were off. "The only thing I'm going to regret is not being there to watch what happens when my brother finds you. And he will find you."

"Your brother's reach is much more limited than he would have you believe." Ginger smiled. "And my employer is ready to deal with the potential repercussions. The dust-up will be brief." He stood up. "Now, I'll just go prepare your injection, and we'll get this show on the road." 

He was out of time. He'd known from the start that rescue was unlikely, even if they had left Bahnsen alive to raise the alarm, which was even less likely. There was only one action left to him.

He had tried to delete John before, but never in circumstances as dire as this. If he led these men to Mary, they would have to kill John to get to her. There was no greater motivation than that. 

Every memory of her had to be deleted before the drug took effect, and it would have to be done with brutal efficiency. Broad strokes. No finesse. No holding back. 

They would not be able to make him tell them what he no longer remembered.

By the time the needle slipped into the raw flesh of his back, and the drug hit his system, he was already deep in his Mind Palace with the mental equivalent of a flame thrower, leaving smoking heaps of wreckage in his wake.

* * *

John was in the bathroom when his phone started to vibrate on the night stand. Mary glanced at the caller ID and frowned. "John? It's Greg Lestrade. Do you want me to get it?" 

John opened the door and let out a puff of steam from the shower he'd just finished. His hair was dripping wet. "Yeah, tell him I'll be right there." 

She swiped the screen and brought the phone to her ear. "Greg? It's Mary."

"Is John there?" The tension in his voice was palpable.

"He's on his way. What's wrong?"

"It's Sherlock," was all she heard before John took the phone from her hand.

He listened for a few seconds, then snapped "When?", already grabbing the clothes he'd dropped on the chair earlier and pulling them on again, using his shoulder to hold the phone to his ear. "I'm on my way."

"Sherlock's been kidnapped," he told her. "I'll call you when I can."

"Be careful," was all she could say before he literally ran out of the room.

* * *

The sight of Jared Bahnsen sitting in front of Lestrade's desk- in Sherlock's usual chair, no less- nearly sent John over the edge. He locked eyes with Greg. "What's he doing here?"

"He was with Sherlock when they were attacked." 

John wheeled on Bahnsen. "You were with him?" 

Bahnsen lifted his chin. "Yes."

"Sit down, John." 

John's attention snapped to Greg. "What the hell happened?"

Greg sat back, nodding at Bahnsen. "Tell him."

The last thing he wanted to do was sit. He locked his gaze on Bahnsen. "I'm listening."

Bahnsen's summary of the Valentino investigation was as concise as his comments on the blog. The mutilated body, Sherlock's name written on a piece of paper, the room with a view of Baker Street. Sherlock's phone call that had led them to the address where they'd been ambushed. "He said he got the address from the taxi that took Valentino there last night. I thought it was odd that he said 'taxi', not 'taxi company' or 'taxi driver', but it was hard enough to get that much out of him." 

"Yeah, I'm familiar with his M.O.," John had to admit. Sherlock and his bloody damned obsession with keeping everything to himself so he could stage the Big Reveal.

Bahnsen continued, "I was following him down the side of the building, and I lost my footing for a few seconds. It was long enough for him to turn the corner ahead of me."

"And they were waiting for him," John murmured. 

"I heard the scuffle, but I got tapped before I could see more than a flash of him on the ground."

And they left Bahnsen alive. If not for the fact that Mycroft had already admitted placing Bahnsen with Sherlock himself, John would be looking at him as a likely suspect rather than a victim. It still bothered him that the kidnappers would leave a witness behind. "Why didn't they kill you?"

Bahnsen's eyes widened, and he chuckled. "Well, that was blunt. They did take my mobile."

Mobile. The phone call that had given Sherlock the address. He turned to Greg. "Did you check Sherlock's phone records for the number he called last?"

"Mycroft sent over a list of the past twenty-four hours. There were no calls from Sherlock's phone around the time Bahnsen said. Would he have a burner phone?"

"Not that I ever knew about, but if he was trying to keep Mycroft from tracking him..." 

Greg grimaced. "And us from saving his arse."

It had the ring of an epitaph.

John gave that thought a brutal shove. "I need to see the evidence you've gathered." 

Bahnsen stood up.

John frowned at him. "They won't let you near the evidence. You're a witness."

"And you're way too close to be objective," Bahnsen shot back.

"It's been arranged, John. Mycroft wants him involved." Greg's eyes offered a silent apology.

_I asked you to watch over my brother, John. You let me down._

Greg took them to a conference room down the hall where the team working Sherlock's case had set up shop. To John's surprise, Sally Donovan was one of them. She looked up when they entered the large room, and her eyes softened with sympathy when she saw John. To his relief, she went immediately back to her task. He had seen that look too many times back when they'd all thought Sherlock was dead. Hearing the words that inevitably accompanied it would shred the last of his control.

Greg pointed to the long conference table covered with papers and photographs and plastic evidence bags that the team were in the process of arranging on the whiteboard that had been placed in front of the windows. "This is everything from the Valentino crime scene, from his flat on Baker Street, and the site where Sherlock was taken. There's CCTV footage from the area around Valentino's scene, plus we've requested the same from tonight." He turned to John and added, "Mycroft is expediting that request."

John had no doubt. 

"I'll have it sent down as soon as it gets here," Greg continued. "I'll be in my office. Sergeant Donovan will get you whatever you need." He gave her a meaningful look, and left them.

Bahnsen had stopped just inside the door. A respectful- regretful?- distance from the action. But he was the last person to see Sherlock before he was taken (John had edited the original thought 'last to see Sherlock alive' before it could form), and that made him as valuable as any evidence. John steeled himself and walked over to him. "I've got fresh eyes, but I need the context you can add."

Bahnsen relaxed visibly. "Anything I can do to help."

Sally directed them to the evidence from Baker Street, the smallest grouping of the lot. John stood aside and watched as Bahnsen studied the photographs one at a time, then sorted through the scanty physical evidence. It didn't take long. "Other than the impressive view of 221b from the window, this--" He stopped.

"What?"

Bahnsen shook his head. "I just remembered something he said, but he was joking. He said he wondered which of us Valentino was after."

"You and Sherlock are roughly the same size. What if they took him by mistake?" John's mind was racing. If they'd meant to take Bahnsen and got the wrong man, would they let Sherlock go, or kill him?

"I can think of a few people who would love to get me alone, but not this time. No one but Mycroft Holmes even knows I'm in London. Sorry." 

They were on their second pass through the evidence when the CCTV footage arrived on a stack of DVDs. John and Jared sat in front of the laptop they'd used earlier to go through the footage from the Valentino case which had been on a single DVD. The footage from the area of Sherlock's abduction was taken from every camera Mycroft could access in a two mile radius. It would take hours to get through.

Or, it would have, if not for a bit of much-needed luck.

"I've seen that before." Bahnsen reached across the keyboard and hit the pause button. He pointed at the screen.

"The Volvo?" John squinted at the hatchback under Bahnsen's fingertip.

"Yes. This is--" He scrolled through the menu for the frame reference."--the third time it's popped up in this sequence. And it's also on the Valentino sequence. I noticed it because I used to drive one just like it."

John frowned at the image. "Do you have any idea how many dark green or black Volvo hatchbacks there are in London?" It seemed to change colour in the changing light of the various frames, but it didn't matter which was right. It was a ridiculously commonplace vehicle. "I've got one in blue."

Bahnsen was shaking his head. "It's big enough, and fast enough. And how likely is it to find a car like that in the neighbourhood he was taken from? It sticks out like a flashing neon sign." 

The image on the screen showed the Volvo waiting at a traffic light, and the car behind it blocked their view of the plate number. John started the video playing again and stopped it a few frames later when the car had moved into the junction. The plate was visible, and John wrote down the numbers. "Take a screen grab," Bahnsen told him, "and let's find it on the other DVD."

John ejected the DVD. Bahnsen swapped the Baker Street DVD in its place, already champing at the bit for the image to load. His excitement was beginning to draw looks from the rest of the team. Donovan came over to stand behind Bahnsen and see what they were doing.

Bahnsen watched the video start to play, then reached over and hit fast forward, eyes riveted to the images that began flying by. "I know right where I saw it."

Sally looked at John. "What've you got?"

"Probably nothing. Dark Volvo hatchback on a few images."

Sally's reaction seemed to mirror John's. "That's pretty unremarkable."

"Yeah, that's what I've been trying to --" 

"Look!" Bahnsen pointed at the now-stilled image. He turned to John with a triumphant grin. "It's the same one. Look at the plate!" He held out the screen print. 

Sally leaned in to look, too, scanning the image on the screen and then the screen shot in Bahnsen's hand. "It's the same car." She took the screen print from Bahnsen. "ANPR will have tagged it, if it's stolen." The automatic number plate recognition system was networked with CCTV all over the country. 

It could be sheer coincidence, but it was more than they had a moment ago, and John allowed a flicker of hope. It was quickly extinguished by a thought of what was probably happening to Sherlock while they sat here grasping at straws. 

* * *  
...smoke. Smoking. The smoking lamp is lit. He can smoke in the flat now. John's not there to --

DELETE.

John's not there because--

DELETE.

Married. 

Mary. 

DELETE DELETE DELETE

FILE IS OPEN. DELETE FAILED.

Open doors on both sides of the corridor, as far as he can see. 

"Sherlock, are you listening to me?"

NO.

"John needs help."

Running. Slamming doors all the way.

"You can't help him, but your friend can. Tell me her name, and she can save John the same way she saved you."

John. Friend. M--

DELETE

"It's hard to think, isn't it? It's going to get a lot harder very quickly. You've got only a few seconds to save him. Tell me how to find her while you still can, or John is going to die. Is that what you want your final act to be? "

Doors ahead of him start to swing silently shut by themselves. Everything in slow motion.

Dying.

"Last chance, Sherlock. It's over for you, but John can still be saved. Who am I looking for, Sherlock? Who is going to save John?"

Look after him for me... "Mary."

"Mary who, Sherlock?"

"Mary Watson."

Glow of embers, winking out.

* * *

End of chapter 11


	12. Falling

She had put her mobile on the nightstand in case John called with news, but the one that started ringing at just before four in the morning was across the room, tucked away in the wardrobe. When she wasn't expecting a call from Mycroft, she kept the phone he had given in the one place John never ventured: her lingerie drawer. The call went to voice mail before she managed to get to it, and it rang again as she was pressing 'redial'. Mycroft barely let her say 'hello' before he cut her off with a terse, "I'm at your front door," and immediately ended the call.

There could be nothing on Mycroft's mind right now other than finding Sherlock. Every resource at his command would be devoted to it, so whatever had brought him to her could not be good. She took a moment to gather herself, and went down to let him in.

He strode past her into the room before she even had the door fully open. When she closed it behind him and turned around, he was standing in the middle of the room wearing an expression of utter contempt. "I have no time for subtlety. Michael Valentino was found tortured to death this morning, and Sherlock was taken a few hours later by the same men. I need to narrow the list of suspects, and you're going to do that for me."

She was certain her reaction showed on her face. Michael was the friend she had contacted to create the video broadcast. He had told her at the time that he would not be able to hide all of his tracks. A determined investigation would turn him up eventually, and for that reason he had refused to let her tell him anything about her current identity. If he had come to London, it meant they had been found out and the threat was critical. 

Mycroft reached into his pocket and brought out a folded sheet of paper. "Which of your former associates employs this interrogation technique?"

She took the paper from him and unfolded it, aware that he was watching her closely as she refolded it after a few seconds and handed it back. She refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing her flinch. "He was tortured."

"Without revealing your name," Mycroft added, "or they would not have needed Sherlock."

"He didn't know it."

Mycroft's eyes hardened to steel. "Sherlock, however, does."

"He won't tell them." But she would have said the same of Michael. Yet he'd given them Sherlock's name, knowing it would lead to her.

"They will kill him either way unless we find him first. You recognized the technique. Give me the names."

Michael must have connected the video to Sherlock on his own. She had never told him who it was for, but it wouldn't have taken him long to put it together. Not with the media coverage about Sherlock and Moriarty. And John. If Sherlock managed to hold out, would they come for John next? "Give me a minute to think."

"A minute is literally all you have."

She sat down at the kitchen table with a pad and pencil. She did recognize the torturers' method, but it wasn't quite as singular as Mycroft seemed to think. It was very effective, and therefor had been adopted by many. She came up with five names, and handed the list to Mycroft who was looming over her. "There are others I don't know by name. I could give you the handlers who might be able to tell you more."

He scanned it quickly, and put it back the table with an audible slap. "Add them, and narrow it down. I don't have time to chase false leads."

She made her best guess, and handed it back. "They'll be coming for me next."

Mycroft folded the paper and placed it in his vest pocket. "Yes, I'm sure they will."

"Are you going to let them?" 

"I said I would protect you, and I intend to keep my word. You are coming with me to a secure location where you will remain for 24 hours. At the end of that time, you will depart London to assume your new identity."

She lifted her chin. "You can't force me to leave."

"I assure you, I can. And before you make the mistake of threatening me with exposure, let me further assure you that it would be a waste of your extremely limited time. There is nothing you can do that could possibly make matters worse."

She could hear it in his voice. He thought Sherlock would be dead before they found him, and he was probably right. "What about John?"

"Your husband will be free to accompany you, however you will not be permitted to contact him until the matter of Sherlock's fate is resolved. You have five minutes to gather whatever belongings you can."

She knew she should feel something, leaving the home she had shared with John. The home that was meant to be her child's. "There's nothing here for me."

The windows in the sedan's passenger compartment were blacked out from the inside as well as the outside, but it didn't really matter where Mycroft was taking her.

She had made a deal with the devil, and it had just blown up in her face. 

If anyone had tried to suggest, even two years ago, that this would be her future, she would have laughed. A lifetime commitment to one man, let alone motherhood, represented the ultimate surrender. It meant acquiescence, submission and subjugation. Her mother had been a kind, loving, but - in her daughter's eyes- weak woman who had traded a brilliant future for protection and comfort. It was a life Mary could never have imagined wanting. 

The version of herself she had shared with John had contained a bit of truth, and a lot of wishful thinking. She really had been recruited by the CIA straight out of college, but not as the patriotic idealist she had described to John. She did leave them looking for a new life, but not because She had become disenchanted with the one they offered. she had lucked into information that could provide power and safety, and much more importantly: freedom.

On her final assignment, her target had been a trusted associate of Charles Augustus Magnussen, and her task had been to extract from the associate a list of twelve names along with the leverage Magnussen had with each one. The list was said to include the names of powerful political figures, both in the United States and Europe. In the wrong hands, it posed a threat to US national security. In the right ones- the CIA's of course- it would become an enormous asset. She had quickly recognized the potential in keeping the list to herself, and reported that the man had died without divulging anything. Then she had faked her own death, and escaped to England where she could safely consider how best to exercise the power that now resided in her own Mind Palace.

The first name she had chosen to contact was Mycroft Holmes, not the most highly placed individual in England, but the most powerful, and the most interesting. Unlike the others on the list, the leverage Magnussen had with Holmes was not against him personally but against his brother, Sherlock. A murder for which Sherlock would have been the main suspect. The information did not say whether Sherlock had actually committed the murder, but she now thought it quite possible. Mycroft had used his resources to alter the facts to shield his brother, and Magnussen had all the information he needed to expose both Mycroft's interference and the original evidence of Sherlock's apparent guilt.

Mycroft had listened to her proposal calmly, and then he'd made her a counteroffer that only a fool would decline. She would hide from her pursuers in plain sight. Her job would be to keep John Watson alive and sane for as long as she was needed. There would be substantial monetary compensation, and the promise of a freelance position in her chosen field that would provide a comfortable lifestyle in the country of her choosing. And she would have Mycroft Holmes as a powerful ally and benefactor, when needed. It was short term, painless, and beyond her wildest expectations. Or, so it had seemed.

She had never known anyone like John before, and she had misread him completely. He had been deeply grieving Sherlock's loss when they had met, and it took time to see past that. She mistook his unassuming nature for a lack of confidence, and his grief for weakness. By the time she had realized her mistake, it was too late to turn back. They weren't wildly passionate people, or even particularly affectionate, but they cared deeply for each other. It was the last thing she had ever thought she would want, but now that she had it, she was not about to let it go without a fight. 

Sherlock being abducted and tortured because of her was a disaster she could not have anticipated. Even if he were returned unharmed, which was so unlikely that it didn't bear thinking about, he had already become suspicious of her. If he lived, he would no longer be her ally. If he died, he would once again become the unseen presence between her and John that he'd been from the very beginning. An unacknowledged, immoveable barrier that she could never cross.

But there was one very important change to the dynamic. It was no longer just the three of them. The baby had been an accident, but it may just have become her only hope.

* * *

Sherlock had been missing for twelve hours, and the single lead they had was a Volvo hatchback whose only connection to the case was Bahnsen's hunch. John kept going over the rest of the evidence, hoping something more concrete would jump out at him, because the only man whose hunches John trusted was on the wrong end of this investigation. 

He had watched Sherlock work evidence many times in this very room. Standing in front of the same whiteboard festooned with crime scene photos and marked with lists and sketches and random thoughts. And Sherlock would distil it all into the one nugget of fact that turned it all around. The images kept creeping into John's peripheral vision, painfully vivid and cruel. There was another memory, not related to a case. The day Greg had brought Sherlock and John to this room to present him with another hated deerstalker. Meant as a joke, and not a kind one, it seemed to have pleased Sherlock in some way that John never understood.

Sergeant Donovan had quickly established that the plate number was a fake. It matched the year and make of the hatchback which had kept it from triggering a routine alert, but the number had never been assigned to anyone. Coupled with its presence on CCTV in the vicinity of two crime scenes seemed to bear out Bahnsen's hunch, but no one was pretending that it would make any difference. The men who had figured out how to lure Sherlock into a trap were not stupid. The car would not lead to them, if it was even connected to the case at all.

Bahnsen was at the laptop, endlessly reviewing CCTV images. He looked up when John got to his feet. "Ready for a break?" He started to rise from his chair.

John's hand came up of its own accord, warding him off. "Not--" ...with you. He lowered his hand. As much as he needed a target, he knew it wasn't Bahnsen. Not really. "I just need some air. I'll be back in a few minutes."

Bahnsen sat down and turned back to the screen. "Sure. No problem."

He stopped by Greg's office and found him on the phone. Greg waved him in and pointed to the chair in front of his desk. John sat next to Sherlock's empty chair and waited.

"Bring in whoever you need to help." Greg replaced the receiver and folded his hands on the desk. "ANPR says the number plates match the make and year, and there are no stolen Volvos that match the description. Donovan's getting a list of every one registered in the whole bloody country. We'll contact the owners and see what turns up."

"So, Bahnsen was right." Sherlock could well have been in the car when the CCTV image was captured.

"We don't know that yet. But yeah, it's possible."

They sat in silence for a long moment. Greg staring at his folded hands, and John watching him. 

"We'll find him, John."

The last thing he needed right now was false hope. He needed a miracle. Speaking of which... "Anything from Mycroft?"

Greg frowned. "He's not returning my calls. The last time I talked to him was at the crime scene. He got us the CCTV footage, but--" He spread his hands. "It's pretty damned odd."

John agreed. He pulled out his phone. Mycroft's PA answered on the first ring. "This is John Watson. I need to talk to Mycroft."

"I will give him your message, Dr Watson."

"No, I need to talk to him now."

"I understand, but he is not available." Her voice was its usual unflappably smooth self.

John's was not. "His brother is missing."

"I am aware of Sherlock's situation, as is Mr Holmes. He will be in touch as soon as he can." She ended the call.

John looked up at Greg and shook his head. "You saw him twelve hours ago, and that was it?" It made no sense whatever. Unless... "What if he knows who has Sherlock?"

Greg sat forward. "You think he's going after them himself?"

"Can you think of any other reason he's not breathing down our necks?"

Greg considered it, then shook his head. "No, he'd tell us. At the very least, he'd want to make sure we stayed out of the way."

Greg was right. Mycroft wouldn't risk having them blunder into an op. If he was working this alone, he would warn them off. "Then where the hell is he?"

* * *

"Sir?" 

He looked up from the computer screen. His PA placed a note on the desk next to its predecessors and stepped back. "John Watson again." She left and closed the door softly behind her.

He glanced again at the silent phone on his desk. The only one he wanted to hear ring. 

Facts could not be ignored. The most ruthless determination could not alter reality. 

The men who had taken Sherlock were professionals. Their target was Mary Watson, and they were clearly prepared to do whatever might be required to find her. The trail they were following had led them to Michael Valentino, an experienced field agent, a man they had tortured and killed without leaving a trace of themselves behind. Valentino had led them to Sherlock. Whether they succeeded in getting Mary's name from him or not, Sherlock would be killed. And it was becoming clear that there was nothing he could do to save him.

Every name on the list Mary had given him was being investigated to the very limit of his resources. He had exhausted every favour owed to him, and incurred more than he would be able to repay for the rest of his career. And not a single viable lead had been found. 

The Met were searching for a 2014 Volvo hatchback that had been captured on CCTV in the vicinity of Sherlock's abduction as well as that of Valentino's body. It would be found, eventually, and perhaps Sherlock's body would be in it, but it would not lead to the men who were at this moment in the process of killing him.

Sherlock would not give up until they destroyed him. He would not be able to think his way out this time, and that would be more painful to him than anything they might do to his body. 

The only job that had ever really mattered was protecting Sherlock, and yet he'd failed at every turn. Made mistake after mistake, never learning from any of them. Mary Morstan was the last. Sherlock was going to die trying to save a woman who had taken away the only person on earth he had ever loved. And Mycroft had placed them in her path.

* * *

Falling. Air kicked from his lungs when he hits the ground. Flat on his back in the dark. Gasping for air.

It's all he can hear. Air rasping in and out of his throat. Sweet metallic tang on his tongue. Blood.

Cold breeze. Bare skin. Outside. Where?

Think. Like clawing up through wet, sucking mud.

Glass. Under his back. 

Rolling to his left presses shards of it into his back. Lying back is no better. Broken glass under him. Feeling the ground with both hands, moving the pieces with careful fingers.

Not glass. Gravel.

Palms flat at his sides. Pushing up, curling his back hurts. 

Dizzy. Sick. Retching into his lap. 

Rumble he can feel under his hands. The ground is vibrating. 

Blinding white light. Burst of air roaring over him.

Head splitting, deafening, blaring BLAT. Clapping both hands over his ears too late. 

Scrambling away from it, skittering gravel.

Hurts. 

Think.

Outside. Blasting horn. Blinding light. Vibration. Gravel.

Train. Gravel ballast. Rail line.

Cracking his eyes open. Spots.

Get up. Move.

On his feet, staggering into a hard rough surface. Tree trunk. Poking branches. Ground on a steep slant.

Hang on to it. Scrapes bares skin. No shirt.

Ringing in his ears, fading. Another sound. Above him. 

Not a train. 

Motor idling. Deep rumble. 

Bus.

Climb.

He doesn't get far. Fence. Chain link. Reaching up, he can just touch the top. Leaning against it makes him shiver. Curl stiff fingers into the mesh. Pull.

No toe hold. Shoes slipping useless.

There has to be a gate. 

Pick a direction. Move.

Find it.

* * *

Greg came into the conference room looking like death warmed over. John imagined he didn't look any better himself. Bahnsen, bizarrely, looked exactly as he had when they'd got here almost thirty hours ago.

"They found the car."

John stood up, braced for the news he could see in Greg's eyes.

"No sign of him, John." Grim hesitation. "There's apparently some blood in the back."

"I'd call that a sign." John realized as he saw Greg wince that he'd just said that in a fair imitation of Sherlock's snarky condescension. He made a conscious effort to level his tone. "Where is the car?"

"Hemel Hempstead. A local spotted it sitting off the road and stopped to see if anybody needed help. He saw the blood and called police."

"We have to search the area." He couldn't sit here. Not for one more minute.

Greg held up both hands. "They're doing that. It's a rural area, and it's dark, but they're looking."

"I need to be there."

"John, he wasn't in the car. They probably left him a good distance away from it. You know that."

"It's all we've got. Did you try Mycroft? He can send a helicopter with heat sensors. They can search in the dark with--"

Greg cut him off, "It was Mycroft who called me. He's already on his way."

"Not without me." 

"If they find him, they'll fly him back here," Bahnsen said reasonably. "And you'll be an hour away poking around in the dark."

Greg joined in. "I'll let you know as soon as we hear anything. You're dead on your feet. Go--"

"STOP HANDLING ME!"

The room went silent. John dropped his chin and pulled in a deep breath. "I need to be there." He looked up at Greg. 

"I'll stay here," Bahnsen offered.

Greg nodded. "Donovan? Call me if you hear anything."

John was already on his way to the stairs.

He tried Mycroft's number while he waited for Greg to bring the car around. There was no answer, and John left a terse voice message. "Call me." He almost tried Mary, but it was past four in the morning. She would be sleeping. He checked his own messages, and was mildly surprised that there wasn't one from her. Surprised, and annoyed. It wasn't that he wanted to hear from her, but the thought of her sleeping peacefully when Sherlock was missing-- He shoved it aside. Nothing could matter less than what Mary thought. Not now.

It took them just under an hour to reach the abandoned car. They could see the blue lights of a single police vehicle from a half mile away, and the search light of a helicopter swept across the road in front of them as they paused at the junction to make the last turn. John squinted up at it, wondering if Mycroft was up there.

Greg pulled up behind the police car. A portly, middle-aged constable was leaning against the boot, smoking a cigarette. He stamped it out and came over to greet them. "Detective Inspector Lestrade?"

"Where is everybody?" Greg asked, looking past the man at the field beyond. The Volvo was sitting at an angle several yards past the police car.

The constable straightened his shoulders. "Gone back to the station, sir. Left me to keep watch on the car until you got here. They'd have towed it off otherwise." He looked up at the helicopter as it made a near pass. "Air search is still underway, but we've covered the whole area."

John left them and walked to the Volvo. The hatch was up, and all four doors were standing open. The interior lights were all on.

The carpet in the back was stained with blood. Not a pool of it, but enough to make John's gut clench. 

Still bleeding when they put him in the car. Not dead.

The winter-dry grass crunched under approaching footsteps. "He's not here, John."

John turned to look up at Greg. "But he was."

They both looked up as the helicopter's engine changed pitch. Revving. Pulling away. 

John turned to watch as it sped off, searchlight extinguished. 

South. Toward London.

Greg's phone started to buzz. He dug it from his pocket and brought it to his ear. Listened for a moment, then looked sharply at John as he responded, "Where?" He started walking briskly to his car, needlessly gesturing for John to come. 

They got into Greg's car, and Greg put the phone in its cradle and switched it to hands free. Donovan's voice picked up in mid-sentence.

"--rail line in Hampstead. Driver of one of the trains reported a man sitting next to the tracks, and rail security went to check it out. They found him slumped against the perimeter fence a hundred yards down the track from where the driver said he was. No ID on him, but the constable who responded to the scene recognized him and called us."

"What's his condition?" Greg glanced at John and added quickly, "John's here. You're on speaker."

Her voice lost some of its professional detachment. "Oh, hello John. I was told that he lost consciousness shortly after the security people found him. He has some... injuries to his back."

Valentino's autopsy images popped instantly into John's head. 

Greg cleared his throat. "Any indication how he got there?"

"Not so far. There's a footbridge that runs between Minster and Westbere Roads near where the driver reported seeing him. He could have jumped or been tossed from it. We're talking to residents across the road, but so far no one's seen anything. And there's no CCTV. We probably won't know until we can talk to him."

A male voice, some distance from the phone, called to her, and the sound dimmed. John could picture her holding the phone to her chest, muffling the response she was getting. Then she was talking to them again. "We just found his coat on the other side of the fence, halfway up the embankment."

Greg frowned. "Could he have climbed over?"

"They're meant to prevent that. No, I don't think so."

"Where did they take him?"

"Royal Free."

The nearest hospital, not the best. Mycroft would have something to say about that.

"We're still an hour out," Greg told her. "I need you to go to the hospital and see what Sherlock can tell you." 'While he still can' was unspoken, but clearly implied.

"I could turn the scene over to Masters and let him finish up."

"Do it. Call me with as soon as you can." Greg ended the call. 

John leaned back and closed his eyes, willing the distance to shrink the way he'd once willed a dead man back to life.

Thirty hours. They'd had him for thirty hours, and Sherlock had still managed to walk a hundred yards in the dark with his back in shreds. 

"Why would they leave him alive?" He didn't realize he'd said it out loud until Greg answered.

"Maybe they got what they wanted."

What the hell would that have taken? His stomach rolled.

The rest of the drive passed in silence. Sally Donovan did not call back, and John did his best not to consider what information she might have obtained that she decided had to be conveyed in person rather than over the phone.

_* * *  
End of chapter 12


	13. Ginger glass and smoke-dark doors

The Intensive Treatment Unit at Royal Free Hospital occupied the entire fourth floor. Visitor access was limited to a single lift that opened onto a long corridor leading to the ITU entrance. The woman at the reception desk in A&E had not been able to tell them anything about Sherlock other than his location, and the first thing John saw when the lift doors opened was Jared Bahnsen waiting for them. In the few seconds before Bahnsen spoke, John's mind raced at top speed trying to interpret the look on the man's face and brace himself for what was coming. 

Mercifully, he led with the good news. "He's doing okay. The doctor's in with him now."

John was already in motion toward the ITU entrance doors with Bahnsen and Greg on his heels. He glanced back over his shoulder at Bahnsen, "Have you seen him yet?"

"For a few minutes when they were still treating him downstairs, and a while longer when they brought him up here. He's been out the whole time, as far as I know."

They reached the double doors at the end or the corridor and pressed the call button. A female voice drifted up from the speaker. "How may I help you?"

"This is Jared Bahnsen. You just let me out a few minutes ago."

The door unlocked with a soft click, and they went through to the nurses' station just inside. A young woman seated behind a waist-high counter smiled at Jared, her gaze touching briefly on the two new faces. Greg flashed his badge, and she nodded, then looked inquiringly at John.

"Dr John Watson."

Her brow crinkled for a second, not recognizing his name.

"I'm not on staff here. I'm Sherlock's friend."

She nodded. "You can wait for Dr Gupta here, if you like."

Jared was already heading for Sherlock's room. "That's okay, she's expecting us." 

Past the nurses' station were three glass double-doors, one on each of the three walls. Jared opened the one on the right and held the door for Greg and John, then followed them in.

There was a smaller nurses' station in the centre of the room surrounded by twelve patient beds separated by partially drawn curtains suspended from tracks in the ceiling. All were occupied. Sherlock was in the second from the entrance on the right, and there was a petite woman in a white coat standing next to his bed with her back them, viewing the monitor readouts. Her long dark hair was pulled into a ponytail that reached halfway to her waist. She turned round as they approached, and immediately motioned them back to the nurses' station. She was effectively blocking their view of the patient's face, and she pulled the curtain before she came to join them.

Greg showed his badge again, and John introduced himself. "I'm Sherlock's friend as well as a doctor. What is his condition?"

"His vital signs are stable, but he is a bit tachycardic. That's likely from the ketamine we found in the drugs screen rather than the blood loss. He's been unresponsive since he came in, but we expect him to wake up once he's cleared the drug out of his system. There are no fractures, and no indication of head trauma. The main area of injury is his back. It's covered with lacerations, two of which required sutures. Considering what he's obviously been through, I'm satisfied with his status."

"What's his GCS?" John asked, and drew a frown from Greg.

"Nine, just now. He's said a few random words, but not in response to us."

Greg looked to John for clarification.

"It's a measurement of consciousness. Nine's okay, considering." John told him, then turned to the doctor. "Can we see him?"

"His brother sent word that you and Mr Bahnsen were to be permitted full access." She looked up at Greg. "I'm sorry, Detective Inspector. He didn't mention you."

"Mycroft was here?" John was frankly surprised that he'd left.

"No, he sent word," she corrected him. "Now, if there are no questions?"

There were many, but none she could answer. "No, thank you, Doctor."

Greg blew out a long breath. "He's a lucky bastard. John, you call me the moment you know anything, yeah?" He glanced at Bahnsen. "You're staying?"

Bahnsen lifted his chin. "Yes."

Greg's gaze flicked between the two of them. "Right." He turned on his heel and went out through the main door.

"I have a call to make. You go ahead," Bahnsen said, then headed off after Greg.

John took a steadying breath before he pulled back the curtain and walked to Sherlock's bed.

He was lying on his left side, covered to his chin with a heat-trapping blanket. If not for the banged up nose, he could have been curled up on the sofa at Baker Street, waiting for John to wake him up for a meal he would refuse to eat. The image abruptly tightened John's throat, and he focused on the monitor readouts instead, reassuring himself with visual confirmation of what the doctor had told them.

"Sherlock, it's John. We really have to stop meeting like this." The teasing tone he'd been aiming for fell miserably short. "It's getting a bit old, don't you think?" The need to touch him was overwhelming, and John leaned in to cup Sherlock's bruised cheek.

The curtain hooks rattled in their ceiling track as Jared Bahnsen returned at precisely the wrong moment. John straightened and stared stonily as Bahnsen walked to the opposite side of the bed. Bahnsen's view of Sherlock's back was blocked by the blanket, and he lifted it to take a look. 

A surge of protectiveness put an edge in John's voice. "He's hypothermic."

"No doubt," Bahnsen agreed, and replaced the blanket. "They really did a number on him." 

Nearly everything Bahnsen did or said seemed to infuriate John, but this casual observation made him grip the bedrail with both hands.

And then, he made it much worse. "Why did they leave him alive?"

John's smile would have been a serious warning to anyone who knew him. "Oh, I don't know. Maybe they thought throwing him from a bridge would finish him off."

Bahnsen raised his hands in mock surrender. "I'm just wondering why they killed Valentino and put his body where it would be found right away, but didn't do either with Sherlock."

"Valentino wasn't Mycroft Holmes' brother." Leaving him alive wouldn't save them, but thank God they apparently didn't know that.

"Mycroft is on his way here. I just talked to him."

First name basis. John looked up. "You called him?" And he took the call, obviously. Unlike John's calls. Or Greg's.

Bahnsen looked down for a moment. "I don't have an inside track, John. I've been trying to reach him all night, too. He said he's been working on a lead."

"What lead?"

"He didn't say."

The conversation died. There was only one chair, and John pulled it up next to the bed. Bahnsen alternated between standing next to Sherlock's bed, and pacing between it and the nurses' station. 

Mycroft arrived thirty minutes later, tight-lipped and grim. Bahnsen moved to the foot of the bed, and Mycroft took his position at the side.

John knew he should offer Mycroft the chair, but resentment made even that small courtesy too much to deal with. "What lead were you following up?" If that had been told to Bahnsen in confidence, so much the better.

Mycroft glanced at Bahnsen. "Obviously nothing that proved helpful."

"Did you share it with Greg?" 

Mycroft regarded him calmly. "How is my brother, John?"

Neatly dodged. "We're waiting for him to wake up. The drugs test found ketamine. His physical injuries are not life-threatening." For a change.

Mycroft nodded. John knew from experience that this was not news to Mycroft. He would certainly have already talked to the doctor.

Mycroft confirmed it a moment later. "I have asked the consultant to run a mass spectrometer analysis of Sherlock's blood. There are certain unsanctioned drugs used in this type of interrogation that I would like to rule out."

Interrogation. What a lovely euphemism for torture. "Such as?"

Bahnsen and Mycroft exchanged a look. Mycroft uncharacteristically allowed Bahnsen to field the question. "I've been wondering about it, too, John. The fact that he's got so much less physical damage than we saw on Valentino suggests that they took a different approach with Sherlock. Maybe they were running out of time, or maybe they realized that physical pain wasn't going to be enough."

"What about this drug?" 

Bahnsen and Mycroft exchanged another bloody look, and John's control snapped. "Goddamnit, Mycroft, tell me!" He saw the nurse from the corner of his eye stand up at her station, but he was too far gone to care about making a scene. "Is it what's keeping him out like this? Is there something going on that we could stop?" He was on his feet with no recollection of standing up. Both hands clenched at his sides. "He's been here for two fucking hours, and you're just now telling us?"

"John!" Bahnsen's gaze was riveted on Sherlock. "Look!"

Sherlock's eyes were open.

"Thank Christ," John bent close to him and put his hand on Sherlock's cheek. "Sherlock?" No response. He gently turned Sherlock's face toward him. "Sherlock, look at me." Waved his hand in front of empty eyes. "Get the doctor," he said to no one in particular, his focus riveted on Sherlock's blank stare.

The doctor wisely sent them all to the corridor outside the unit, and John spun on Mycroft as soon as the door closed behind them. "What the hell is going on? And stop looking at him. Fucking talk to me!"

Bahnsen showed the good sense to excuse himself.

"John," Mycroft began in an infuriatingly calm voice, "there is something I need to tell you."

"No shit."

"I have withheld nothing that would have either helped you find Sherlock, or enabled his doctors to avoid this outcome."

Mycroft's calm admission that he had been expecting any version of this clenched both of John's hands into fists. "What outcome?" 

Mycroft glanced at Sherlock's door. "Let's put that aside for the moment. What I--"

"Put it aside? Are you out of your mind?"

"What I need to tell you concerns your wife."

Pumping adrenaline, abruptly doused by total confusion. "What?"

"The men who did this to Sherlock are looking for your wife. I have moved her to a secure location until the situation can be addressed more appropriately."

"How-?" John shook his head and tried again. "You think this was about Mary? That's your lead?"

"The enemies Magnussen was threatening to bring down on her are her former employers. She stole a list of names. They want it back, and they will do whatever it takes to get it. If she stays in London, they will find her. This--"

This was all about finding Mary? How long had she known they were this close to finding her? Did she know who had taken Sherlock? Could she have warned him?

"--will, of course, mean that she must leave London within --"

"Leave? What--" He shook his head. "What are you saying?"

Mycroft sighed, then continued in a patient tone that made John want to throttle him. "Given that your wife has made a mortal enemy of the CIA, there is no practical way to protect her as long as she remains in her current identity. She must assume a new one and leave the country within 24 hours."

John stepped firmly into Mycroft's personal space. "Who the hell do you think you are?"

Mycroft didn't flinch. "I think I am the only one your wife trusted to rectify the situation she has created for all of us."

"She asked you to do this?"

"Yes, John. And you are free to go with her, if you wish. But you must understand that if you accompany your wife into exile, you will never be able to contact your family, or anyone else from this life. If you choose to stay with Sherlock, you will never see your wife or your child. Your decision will be irrevocable, and you have very little time to make it."

The ITU door opened, and they both turned toward it. 

"Please come in," the doctor said, and led them back to Sherlock who was sitting on the bed with his legs dangling over the side.

John started toward him, but the doctor held up one hand. "Just one moment." She walked over to Sherlock and took his right hand. Lifted it up until his arm was outstretched, then she let go. The arm remained aloft. "Sherlock, can you hear me?" 

"Smoke." Distant. Toneless.

John came over to stand behind her. Sherlock was staring at nothing, his arm floating in front of him. 

Sherlock's gaze remained fixed and empty. "Dark."

John moved next to the bed, not quite pushing the doctor aside. "What are you trying to say? Sherlock, it's John. Look at me."

"Doors." Barely a whisper.

"They're disconnected words, not responses. A few minutes ago, he said 'ginger glass'." The doctor took Sherlock's hand and pushed it down to the bed. Sherlock complied. She turned to look at Mycroft. "Is this symptomatic of the drug you mentioned?"

Mycroft's brow furrowed over a razor sharp gaze that was fixed on Sherlock. "No, doctor. It is not." He came to stand next to her. "May I have a few moments with my brother?"

"You're welcome to sit with him until we take him down to CT for another scan. We need to rule out any changes that might explain this." She left the room.

Mycroft turned to John. Waiting. "I need to talk with my brother." 

John crossed his arms.

"I may be able to help him." He softened his expression. "Please."

"I'll be right outside."

* * *  
Mycroft closed the curtains, then stood in front of Sherlock for a long moment before he spoke. "What are you doing, Sherlock?"

Sherlock's gaze remained fixed. Unblinking.

Mycroft reached out and lifted his brother's chin. "I know you're angry with me, but I can help you. Look at me." Nothing. "Mary is safe. You can stop now."

The blank, empty gaze stabbed at his heart. Worse than dead.

Sherlock's captors would have told him what they were about to do. They would have described the effects of the drug, hoping the threat of having his mind stripped away would make him tell them what they wanted to know. It was standard interrogation protocol. In Sherlock's case, it would have been an even more terrifying prospect than they could have imagined. He would have been able to endure the physical torture, but threatened with the rape of his mind, he would see only one alternative. 

A defeated army in retreat. Destroying what had to be left behind to keep it from enemy hands.

But there would have been no time to neatly sort through the dangerous memories and delete them singly. He would have destroyed it all. To protect John, he would do whatever it took. And he was still trying.

He took his brother firmly by the shoulders. "Sherlock, you must stop this immediately. The threat has passed. You're doing yourself irreparable damage for no reason."

He cupped Sherlock's chin and turned the bottomless gaze to meet his own. "Please."

* * *

When Mycroft opened the curtains, it was clear to John that the news was not good. Every line of the man's body was blurred with defeat. He held up a hand to halt the questions he must have seen coming, and motioned for John to follow him out to the corridor.

As soon as the door closed behind them, John took hold of Mycroft's arm. "You know what's going on with him, don't you? What is it?"

Mycroft looked down at the restraining hand. "Sherlock is doing what he always does, John. He's trying to protect you."

John let go. "Protect me? From what?"

"As long as your wife remains in London, she is in danger, and so are you. You have only a few hours to decide how you want to remedy that situation. Don't waste them."

"I'm not leaving him like this."

Mycroft regarded him with one lifted brow. "'This' may well be permanent. It's time to choose a side, Dr Watson." He studied John for a moment, then turned and headed for the lift.

John watched him go. When the lift doors opened, Bahnsen came out. The two men barely glanced at each other. When Bahnsen reached John, he asked, "What's happened?"

Bahnsen's presence was compounding an intolerable situation. He did not belong here. Not at Sherlock's bedside, and not at Baker Street. Mycroft's explanation for bringing him into Sherlock's life had seemed plausible at the time, but it had been offered at a moment when John was in no state to question it. Mycroft's timing for offering it should have raised a red flag all by itself. If there was anything John knew about Mycroft Holmes it was that nothing the man did was accidental or spontaneous. He had chosen to warn John off at that precise moment. Why?

"Why are you here?"

Bahnsen seemed surprised. "For the same reason you are."

"No. You're not. How do you know Mycroft?"

Bahnsen's expression went carefully neutral. "We've worked together in the past. And before you ask, I can't tell you any more than that."

"He took you along to rescue Sherlock. Why you?"

"Instead of you? You'd have to ask him that question."

"That one, I already know. He couldn't take me along to rescue a man I thought was dead." That should have generated a question from Bahnsen, but didn't. "Why did he take you?"

"He didn't say."

"He told me he brought you back this time to keep Sherlock off drugs. How's that working?" As John had recently learned, and as Bahnsen certainly knew, it hadn't worked at all.

Bahnsen's eyes narrowed. "You seem to think you've already figured it out."

John scoffed at that. "I wish." It was more honest than he'd intended, and he consciously closed off his expression. "You don't know me at all."

"You're right. I don't. Maybe if I did, I could explain you to Sherlock because he hasn't got a clue."

John could feel his pulse throbbing in his temples. "Don't--" He wasn't sure if he meant that for Bahnsen, or for himself. 

"He's been in free fall since he got back from Serbia. It never crossed his mind that you wouldn't be glad to see him. His brother tried to tell him, but you can imagine how well that went over. How do you think he must have felt facing Mycroft with a busted nose, having to admit how he got it."

John flexed his cramping fingers. "How the hell would you know any of that?"

"I was here. And I pay attention. You're the only person on earth he gives a damn about. You're what got him through two years of hell, and you're the reason he came back. What happens to him now is entirely up to you."

"I know that." The weight of it was killing them both.

"So, what are you going to do about it?"

Impossible choices. Let Mary leave the country with his child, or go with her and leave Sherlock to the silence he had locked himself into to save her. "I have to think. Stay with him." He strode for the lift before he could change his mind.  
The cold outside barely registered. Head down, hands in his pockets, collar pulled up, he started walking. 

How many times had he stalked out of the flat after a tiff with Sherlock? It was always easier than talking through whatever had pissed him off because that's what he did with Sherlock. Got to the brink of telling him off, and left before he could do it. Because telling him off might lead to telling him why it mattered so damn much. 

Why, for example, there could be any question at all about what came next. His wife was leaving the country. Leaving her life-- her current life, which was probably no more legitimate than the one she'd traded for it-- and he was expected to go with her. Give up everyone and everything he knew and loved for a different life in a different country with a woman he barely knew and a child he'd never met.

Why saying goodbye forever to a man who had saved his life and his sanity, healed his body and his mind, and then jumped from a roof and left him with nothing to live for, then popped up again like it was all a fucking joke-- why the thought of never seeing that man again tore the heart out of him.

Maybe Sherlock had already found the answer. Just check out of the world. Stare blindly from wherever the hell he was now and let it all fade away. Nothing they did made any difference. A twist of fate, random chance, and it was all gone.

He was only mildly surprised when he looked up to find himself standing in front 221 Baker Street. 

The windows were dark, of course. At half four in the morning, everything was. He could go up and light the fire. Warm up for whatever came next.

Take one last look at the only place on earth that felt like home.

Except that standing in the doorway to the sitting room a moment later, he felt like an intruder. There were subtle traces of Bahnsen's presence everywhere he looked. His chair was shifted to the left, more toward the fireplace than John had kept it. Books on the table next to it that he didn't recognize as part of Sherlock's collection. Beer bottles in the bin under the sink in the kitchen. A brand of tea on the worktop next to the kettle that would certainly have drawn a haughty sniff from Sherlock. 

He walked back out to the hall and looked up the stairs toward his old room. A proper goodbye to the flat certainly called for one last look, but just putting his hand on the railing felt like trespassing. And he really didn't want to know if Bahnsen was sleeping in his bed, or elsewhere. After Janine, he had no idea what Sherlock's limits were. This would be the worst way to find out.

For the same reason, he decided against checking the bathroom. And Sherlock's bedroom.

In the end, he sat down in Sherlock's chair for only the second time in his life. The first had been the day he came back from watching Sherlock throw himself off a roof. He still didn't remember anything in between letting go of Sherlock's wrist, and walking up the stairs here. He had staggered to this chair and dropped into it. Greg had showed up sometime later, and took his gun away. John had wondered at the time how Greg could have known what he'd been thinking. 

"John?" Mrs Hudson was standing just inside the door, clutching her dressing gown tightly around her with both hands. "Are you all right?"

He made a sound that was meant to be a laugh. "Not really."

She came over and sat in his old chair. "Where is Sherlock?"

There had been nothing on the news, of course. All she would have known was that Sherlock hadn't been home for the past two days. Not an unusual occurrence. "He's in hospital, Mrs Hudson."

"Oh, John. Not the drugs..." She pressed one hand to her heart. 

"No, not the drugs. He was abducted. We found him a few hours ago."

She gasped, eyes suddenly shiny with tears. "Is he all right?"

"I think he will be." A wilful, wishful lie.

"Why aren't you with him?"

"It's...complicated."

"Well, of course it is! Honestly--" She huffed in exasperation.

John's mouth dropped open. The only time he'd ever heard her use that tone was with Sherlock, and not nearly as often as he deserved. "You don't know what's going on."

"Then TELL me. It can't just be that Sherlock's been hurt. I've seen you when you thought he was going to die, and you didn't look like this."

He wondered what she was seeing. It was tempting to stand up and look in the mirror. "I have a decision to make." 

"About Sherlock?"

Of course, she would think it was about Sherlock. She thought everything was about Sherlock. But wasn't it? If this was just about leaving London to be with his wife and child, there would be no question at all. Harry would barely notice he'd gone. His friends here were no more than casual acquaintances. He'd never had the time, or the interest, for anyone but Sherlock. Greg and Molly. And Mike. He would miss them, but they were no competition for Mary and the baby. But Sherlock was. If he could do nothing else, he could at least admit that much. "Yes. About Sherlock."

"He's not the same person he used to be, John. You've changed him so much."

"Yeah, I've been a great influence." 

She looked dismayed. "You have. You've saved his life, John. You heard what he said in that lovely speech. I've never heard anything so heartfelt and beautiful in my life. You're all that matters to him."

"So I keep hearing."

Her eyes filled with sympathy for a moment, and then she lifted her chin. "I've been telling myself for years that it's not my place to say anything, and now I have the awful feeling that I've waited too long." She took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. "So, I'm not going to hold back. When you came here to tell me you were getting engaged, do you remember that I first thought you were trying to tell me you were dying? That's not the way happy people share what should be wonderful news."

He did, of course. He also remembered that her next thought had been that he was engaged to a man. "It was the first time I'd seen the flat since Sherlock's funeral."

"Do you really think that's why telling me you were engaged came out sounding like a death sentence?"

This wasn't helping. "Mrs Hudson, I know you mean well, but it's not a question of what I want."

"It is, John. More than you know." She hesitated, weighing her next words. "Is Mary forcing you to choose?" She took his silence for an answer. "I just want you to be happy, John. That's all Sherlock wants, too, and he thinks Mary is the answer. You owe him the truth, before it's too late."

"It's already too late." 

"Oh, John. You don't know that. Life is so very short. You won't know how short until you're close to the end of it, like I am. Every moment matters. This one, most of all." 

He wanted to believe her. "I have to get back."

She stood up and held out her hand. Fragile strength offered with a mother's love. He let her help him to his feet, and they walked downstairs.

She pulled him into a hug at the front door. "Give Sherlock my love."

"I will."

She gave his arm a gentle squeeze and walked into her flat.

He walked out onto the step and reached automatically for the brass knocker to pull the door shut behind him like he'd done hundreds of times. And suddenly, everything crashed into him at once. He sat down hard on the step and buried his face in his hands.

* * *


	14. Smoke and Ashes

He was floating up through warm, dark silence, his senses coming back online in layers. Blackness fading to grey, lightening gradually to a stark white glare through his closed eyelids. Something soft beneath him. Sterile, cool air. Smell of plastic. Antiseptic. Rhythmic beeping. Pain, dulled and distant, centred on his back. 

Hospital.

He searched his memory, feeling his way in the dark, but there was nothing familiar under his fingertips, just the faint acrid scent of smoke and ashes. He could hear the beeping speed up in tandem with his rising heart rate. 

"Sherlock?" 

He knew the voice, but it wasn't John. A hand on his shoulder.

"Sherlock, it's Jared Bahnsen. You're all right. Open your eyes."

Bahnsen. Serbia. Relief washed through him, and he opened his eyes.

Jared Bahnsen's uncertain smile directly in his line of sight. Inches away.

"Good to see you, mate. How do you feel?" Bahnsen looked back over his shoulder, then straightened and moved away. 

A woman took his place. "Mr Holmes, do you know where you are?"

He squinted at her, but couldn't focus. "Hospital."

"That's right. Do you know what month this is?"

He couldn't see the smile, but he could hear it. "October."

"And the year?" 

He could tell from the shift in her tone that his answer had been wrong. "2013."

She lifted his eyelids and flashed a bright light in his eyes. "I'm going to raise the bed a bit."

Whirr of the motor working as his back protested the change in position. Spots danced in his vision. 

"Do you remember why you're here?" 

He blinked to clear the spots. He could see her face now, and Jared Bahnsen standing just behind her. They wore similar expressions of concern. Evidently, it wasn't October, but surely he hadn't missed it by that much. He could only be days away from Serbia, going by the pain in his back. The hospital had been in Greece. But he remembered getting on a plane for home, so how could he still be in hospital? Back in hospital? "No."

"You've been injured, but you're doing well. You're at Royal Free Hospital."

"London?" 

The doctor and Bahnsen exchanged a look. Bahnsen came forward. "Could I have a few minutes with him?"

She hesitated for a moment, glancing at the monitors. The beeping had slowed, and his heart was no longer pounding in his throat. "I'll go call his brother." She walked out of range. Bahnsen crossed his arms. "You remember getting on the plane to come back from Greece?"

"Yes." It was clear from Bahnsen's expression that there was more. "How long have I been here?"

Bahnsen looked down at the floor. "I think we need to wait for your brother."

He could feel his heart ramping up again. "No, tell me now." 

"I know this has to be disorienting as hell, but you've only been awake for a few minutes. Give it a little more time, and it will all come back to you."

More than a few days, then. How much more? Bahnsen was worried about telling him something, but what could be so disturbing that-- The obvious conclusion hit him squarely in the chest and made him pull in a sharp breath as if the punch had been physical. He forced the word out on a thin whisper of air. "John--" 

"John's fine. It's not that." His gaze flicked away, just for an instant, but it was enough.

Not lying. Evading. 

"Does he know I'm back?"

The doctor returned at that moment and inserted herself between them with her back to Bahnsen. In one smooth motion, she injected something into the IV port. "Mr Bahnsen, please wait for me outside."

"Of course," Bahnsen said, already on his way.

Sherlock felt the effects instantly. "What was that?" 

"Just something to help you relax. It's very mild."

He would have called her a liar, but the word died in his throat as the loose warmth flooded out from his wrist and pulled him under.

* * *

The doctor came through the ITU doors a moment later and joined Jared in the hall. "Mr Holmes is on his way. He asked that you wait for him downstairs."

"I can't leave him alone. He'll work himself into a--"

"The sedative will take care of that," she interrupted. "I'm sorry, but the patient's brother is insisting that he have no more visitors."

"What about John Watson?" He would be coming back any time, and Jared was quite sure he would not be taking 'no' for an answer.

"No one will be admitted. I'm sorry." She touched Jared's arm briefly and went back into the ITU, leaving him alone in the hall.

Jared took the lift down to the lobby and found a coffee machine. With the adrenaline load pumping through his system, the last thing he needed was caffeine, but he felt chilled to the bone. He took up a position in the space between the exterior and interior double glass A&E doors to wait.

He'd never seen this effect from an interrogation drug before. Subjects coming out of a session like Sherlock had obviously been through were disoriented and hazy, but to be as lucid as Sherlock seemed to be, and not know what year it was... He supposed PTSD could be to blame, but Sherlock had survived a lot worse. The Serbians had nearly killed him. This latest assault was a love tap by comparison. Cumulative effects, then? Everyone had a limit. Maybe Sherlock had just found his own. 

Mycroft's car pulled up twenty minutes later, just as Jared's phone buzzed a text notification. 'Join me. MH'. 

Mycroft began firing questions the moment the sedan's passenger door closed behind Jared. Was Sherlock alert? Did he know where he was? What questions had he asked? 

"He seemed pretty lucid until the doctor asked him the current month and year. He thinks he just got back from Serbia."

"What have you told him?"

"The doctor told him he's in London. We didn't tell him the date, but he knows his guess was wrong."

"Did he ask about John Watson?"

"Yeah. He knew we were holding something back, but he was doing okay until he asked about John."

This clearly did not surprise Mycroft. "You assured him that John is unharmed?"

"I'm not sure he believed me."

Mycroft nodded. "He'll demand proof, but that will have to wait until I've talked with John myself. This will need careful handling." He seemed to be talking more to himself. 

"Why not just give it a few days until his memory's sorted?"

"I'm afraid that is not likely to happen." 

"I'll admit it seems odd to me, too, but the man's only been awake for ten minutes. That's a little soon to be throwing in the towel." 

Mycroft remained grimly silent.

"Look, I can't help him if I don't know what's going on. What aren't you telling me?"

Mycroft seemed to weigh his options. "My brother has an exceptional degree of control over the memories he retains. I believe he attempted to use that ability to protect the information he was being tortured to reveal." 

"Used it how?"

Mycroft's delivery was chillingly matter-of-fact. "He deleted it."

"Deleted what? Everything since Serbia? Could he do that?"

"It would seem so." Mycroft opened the passenger door. "Until I talk with him and assess the degree of damage that has been done, you and John will not be permitted to see him. Please inform John when he arrives." He started to get out of the car.

Jared reached over and grabbed his arm. "Hold on. I'm the last person John will want to hear this from, and I think you know that. What the hell can I tell him?"

Mycroft looked down at Jared's hand and pulled free with a sniff of distaste. "Tell him the truth, as far as we know it. John will understand the situation." He stepped out of the car and shut the door firmly.

Jared leaned back against the seat cushion, in no hurry to trade the warm leather solitude of the backseat for a hard plastic chair in the lobby. This wasn't going to be a conversation he wanted to have with John in public, and it wouldn't be wise to let him get all the way to the ITU doors before finding out he wasn't allowed inside. 

* * *

Dr Gupta doubted his diagnosis, but Mycroft had expected this. She was willing to transfer Sherlock to a currently unoccupied section of the unit on the same floor, but not to the private room Mycroft had requested. "Until we have identified the cause of his disorientation and memory loss, he needs to be closely observed."

Mycroft used his most ingratiating smile. "For the comfort of your other patients, you will want to isolate him as much as possible. Sherlock is not likely to concern himself with keeping his voice down for this discussion."

Sherlock was still sleeping when he was wheeled into the new location. It was identical to the room he had just left, but all of these beds were empty. Dr Gupta had pointed out that she would have to pull one of the staff nurses to man the station for this one patient. It was an inconvenience, and Mycroft had expressed his appreciation appropriately. 

He waited patiently while the uprooted nurse reconnected Sherlock to the monitoring equipment and checked his IV. When she was finished, he moved a chair to the bedside and sat down to wait.

Sherlock would demand to be told everything, and Mycroft would have only his instincts to guide him. There wasn't a psychiatrist or neurologist on earth who could help. What he believed Sherlock had done would not be found in any medical textbook. There would be nothing they could find on a scan. No questions they could ask that would explain his symptoms. Sherlock's brain was not damaged. It had been altered by an act of will that medical science was only beginning to understand. Studies focusing on new memory formation had proved that some subjects could successfully delete an image they had been shown and then asked to forget. It was very preliminary, but the potential application to long term memories was promising. Victims of traumatic events might be taught to erase the painful memory rather than learn to live with it. 

Sherlock, and to a lesser degree Mycroft himself, were living proof of the theory, but neither of them had ever attempted a deletion on this scale. There was no precedent, and therefore no data to predict how long the deletion would last. There was also the danger that by telling Sherlock what he had erased, Mycroft would be virtually ensuring that the memories would be overwritten permanently. It was something akin to deleting files from a computer hard drive. The deleted files were still retrievable until the computer overwrote them with new data. Mycroft could describe the missing events to Sherlock, but no one could recreate the actual experience- what he had felt, what he had learned. Without that context, it would all be meaningless. 

The wait began to wear on his jangled nerves, and he brought out his Blackberry to occupy himself with responding to emails and texts, business that he had to ruthlessly force himself to attend. 

It was nearly two hours before a subtle change in Sherlock's breathing told him that the wait was over. He watched for several more minutes, but Sherlock remained motionless and silent. "I know you're awake, Sherlock." 

He was lying almost completely on his back, just slightly turned to the left side, and the head of the bed was raised so that his closed eyes were level with Mycroft's. A few seconds passed, and both eyes opened. Sherlock watched him for a moment, and then he smiled so warmly that Mycroft felt it in his chest. The surprise rendered him momentarily speechless.

"If I'd known it was this easy to strike you dumb, I would have tried smiling years ago." The smile spread into a grin. 

He sounded so normal, it was as if Mycroft had just popped into Baker Street and interrupted him napping on the sofa. "If you've been shamming..." He would strangle him with his bare hands.

The smile vanished. "Is that what you've been doing? Making me think I've lost time to disguise some byzantine plot you've cooked up?" He tried to push himself up on the bed, his face drawn tight with pain.

Mycroft was instantly on his feet. "Wait, let me help." He steadied Sherlock's shoulders as he scooted himself into an acceptably comfortable position.

"I truly wish I were." He sat back down in the chair. "What's the last thing you remember?"

Sherlock's eyes narrowed in concentration, ready to detect the slightest attempt at concealment. "What is today's date?"

"I'm sure you can appreciate the need to avoid prejudicing any memories you might retrieve on your own. Let's give it a few hours and see what you can recall."

"It can't have been more than a few days. My back is proof of that." He gave his shoulders an experimental shrug, and winced at the result.

"Those injuries are new. 

"Caused by what?"

"Again, I cannot tell you until we know the extent of your memory loss."

"Does John know I'm back?"

"Yes."

The follow up was immediate. "Where is he?"

"He was here before you regained consciousness. He will be back after we've talked." He expected further debate, but the promise of seeing John seemed to suffice for the moment.

"Then get on with it."

"How would you describe the state of your Mind Palace?"

Sherlock's gaze turned inward for a long moment. He pressed his fingers to his temples, and closed his eyes. 

Mycroft watched the concentration slip into confusion, then alarm. "Sherlock, I need you to tell me what you see."

Sherlock's eyes opened slowly, blinked rapidly several times, then turned to Mycroft. "It's...damaged." 

Mycroft hid his own anxiety with a mask of clinical detachment. "In what way? Please be specific."

Sherlock closed his eyes, but opened them so quickly that it was more a short blink. "Not until you tell me how long I've been here."

"A few hours."

"A few--" Sherlock held his hands out in front of him, turning them over slowly. Inspecting. He looked down at his body. Touched his face. "I don't understand." 

"The level of damage, Sherlock." He was finding it difficult to maintain his interrogator's distance from the slow disintegration he saw happening in front of him. 

"Did I do this? Why?" His defences were failing, voice soft with shock.

Seeing his brother so vulnerable was deeply distressing, but it would only upset Sherlock further if he allowed it to show. "You need to rest. Give yourself a chance to sort it out." He stood up, preparing to leave. "As you can imagine, there are some overdue matters that need my attention. I will be back as soon as I can."

Sherlock surprised him by reaching out to take hold of his sleeve. "I need to see John."

His own defences faltered. He placed his hand over Sherlock's, letting it rest there for a moment before he gently tugged free. "You will. I'm going to send Bahnsen in to stay with you. Try to rest." But he could see that Sherlock's focus was already turned inward. Assessing the wreckage. Reordering what was left. 

He stopped in the corridor outside the ITU entrance to phone Bahnsen. As he waited for the call to connect, the lift dinged its arrival, and he could hear the call ringing in stereo from the end of the hall as well as in his ear. He could also hear John's angry voice rising in volume as the lift doors opened. He came striding toward Mycroft with murder in his eyes and Bahnsen right behind him. Bahnsen lifted both hands and shot Mycroft a frustrated glare over John's head. Mycroft stepped to the centre of the corridor and folded his hands.

"Get the hell out of my way, Mycroft, or I will put you down." He was no longer shouting, but the controlled growl was even more threatening.

Bahnsen slipped quickly past John to stand next to Mycroft, effectively blocking the way.

John came to a halt, hands fisted at his sides, breathing hard through his nose. "Let me through."

"We have to talk first, John. I was on my way out to see you."

"What else is there to say? Sherlock is awake, and he doesn't know what year it is. I need to see him." He flexed his fingers and curled them back into fists.

"Listen to him, John."

John barely spared Bahnsen a glance, but it was lethal.

Mycroft met John's gaze levelly. "I'm afraid I must insist."

Bahnsen subtly widened his stance.

The tableau held for a few seconds more. John's posture relaxed a bit into a less threatening stance. "I'm listening."

"We'll talk in my car." He looked at Bahnsen and tipped his head back toward the ITU entrance. "Wait here." 

John followed him outside, but stopped short of getting into the car. "I'm not going anywhere with you." He crossed his arms.

Mycroft opened the passenger door and turned to face him. "If you want to see Sherlock, you will have to indulge me." He got into the backseat. A few seconds later, John slid in and shut the door.

"It's the drug, isn't it? And you could have stopped it."

"No, John. It's not the drug. Sherlock has deliberately erased his own memory. The deletion appears to include everything that's happened since he returned from his hiatus."

John's grim expression went slack. "Why would he do that?"

Mycroft sat back and watched the thoughts swirl through John's eyes, micro expressions crossing his face as he came to the expected conclusion. "Obviously he can't tell us, but I believe it was the only way he could think of to protect your wife. He must have believed that whatever they were about to do to him would work, and he tried to erase the information they were after."

John stared blankly at him for a long moment. "He deleted everything?" He closed his eyes for a few seconds, head tilted to the side. When he looked up at Mycroft again, his gaze was clear and pointed. "You said Mary was in danger. If he didn't tell them who she was, why does she have to leave?"

"I said that he tried to erase the information. The circumstances under which he attempted it were far from optimal. Given the damage he's dealing with in the aftermath, his efforts were less than surgically precise. We must consider the possibility that the information was disclosed."

John looked hard at him. "Does he even remember Mary?" 

"It's unlikely."

"Then he doesn't know I'm married."

Mycroft read mixed emotions in that last statement, and allowed himself a flicker of hope. "There is a positive side to all of this, John. He won't remember your marriage, or his own graceless re-entry into your life. Or your rejection."

John turned to the window. "I didn't reject him."

Mycroft lifted one brow at such obvious self-deception. 

Still facing the window, John missed it. "What can I say to him?"

"I will leave that to your discretion, John. You may frame the past however you wish. Your parting can be as--"

"I have to talk to Mary." He turned back to Mycroft. "Right now."

This was unexpected. "Before you see Sherlock?" 

"Yes."

Unexpected, and wrong. Giving Mary first shot at persuading John to her side was not part of the plan. But, if John intended to leave with her, it would be best to discover that now rather than after he'd given Sherlock reason to hope. Mycroft tapped on the glass divider to get the driver's attention. "Take Dr Watson to see his wife."

"You're not coming?"

"No, John. There's something I have to do. If you decide to come back and talk with him, the car will be available."

"How far is it?" John looked back at the hospital entrance as if steeling himself to leave.

"Twenty minutes, give or take." Mycroft opened the door.

John nodded absently, then looked over at him. "I'll be back as soon as I can."

Mycroft got out, and the car pulled away. Matters were moving much more quickly than he'd expected. Sherlock could not possibly be ready for this, but there seemed to be no alternative.

He returned to the ITU main nurses' station and asked them to call Bahnsen out of the room, then stepped back into the corridor to wait. Bahnsen joined him a moment later, clearly relieved. "He's about to climb walls, Mycroft. I've run out of diversions."

"I have a favour to ask." 

"Whatever he needs."

"You may want to hear me out before you agree. Would you be available to remain in London for an extended period? At Baker Street."

"I wasn't planning to leave for a month, at least. Not until he's back on his feet."

He did not have the luxury of time to do this tactfully. "Jared, I'm aware of your attraction to my brother, and please let's not waste precious time debating the point." Jared had opened his mouth to do just that, but closed it in a grim line. "Thank you. John is on his way to meet with his wife, and there is a strong possibility that he will be leaving the country with her within the next few hours."

"For how long?"

"Permanently. And he will never be able to contact Sherlock again."

"Jesus," Jared breathed.

"I see you understand the problem. Sherlock is about to learn not only that John is married, but leaving the country for good. It will be difficult for him."

Jared scoffed. "And you want me to fill in for John Watson. Yeah, I already put that together on my own the first time I saw the two of them together. And you're right. I wouldn't have minded trying my luck, but there's no point. If you don't know that, you're not paying attention." He blew out a heavy breath. "This is gonna kill him."

"Obviously, that is an outcome I will do anything to avoid. Will you stay with him?"

Jared's smile was stony. "You don't even know how insulting that is, do you? Not just to me, but to your brother."

"I don't have time for subtlety. If you care what happens to Sherlock, put your ego aside and help him. Otherwise, please go back to Paris and send me an invoice for your expenses to date. I require your answer."

Bahnsen's gaze narrowed dangerously. "Sherlock asked me first thing why I had agreed to come here. I told him I didn't like his chances going up against you on his own, and I still don't. I'll stay as long as he'll let me." He pushed past Mycroft, walked a few paces, and turned back. "And you can stuff your fucking money. I'm staying for him, not you." He did an about-face and strode to the lift without looking back.

Mycroft took a moment to steel himself, and pressed the buzzer to be readmitted to the ITU.

When he entered Sherlock's room, he found him sitting up with his legs dangling over the side of the bed. His gaze flicked past Mycroft for an instant, looking for Bahnsen, or more likely John. "That didn't take long. Or are you going to tell me I lost another few hours?"

"Matters moved more quickly than I anticipated."

"Let's maintain that trend. Tell me everything now, or I'm walking out of here to find out for myself."

"There's no need for theatrics. I'm going to tell you what you need to know."

"All of it, Mycroft. Not just what you think I need to know. Start with the date."

"Get back into bed." Mycroft moved to the chair Jared Bahnsen had vacated and sat down.

Sherlock gave him a vile look, but swung his legs back onto the bed and flipped the blanket over his knees, wincing when he settled back against the pillows stacked behind him. "The date, Mycroft."

"23rd January, 2015."

Sherlock's mouth fell open, and his eyes squeezed tight. "What the hell..." His fingers curled around fistfuls of sheet. 

"You've been back in London for 15 months."

Sherlock's eyes snapped open. "I can do the bloody math!" He closed his eyes for a moment, calming himself before he looked back at Mycroft. "What happened?"

"If you were being tortured for information, and you believed you were in danger of revealing it, what would you do?" 

Sherlock's tense expression eased, and his eyes cleared. It was exactly the response Mycroft had expected. In the midst of chaos, a question he could answer.

"I would delete it. Is that what happened? What did they want?"

Mycroft gave him another question instead. "What if the data could not be isolated?"

Understanding shone in his eyes. "I would delete anything that might lead to it. You think I deleted everything since I got back from Serbia to hide what they were after?"

"It would seem so."

"Did it work?"

"We don't know."

Sherlock scoffed. "That means 'no'."

"It means that we have no proof either way."

"You won't tell me what they were after. Tell me what I deleted. What have I been doing for the past 15 months?"

"Obviously, I can only relate the events of which I am aware, and that will leave a great many blanks." 

Sherlock's gaze shifted to the foot of the bed. "What about John?"

"What about him?" He was aware that he was stalling.

"Can't he fill in the rest?" 

So much was loaded into that question.

"He's not been at Baker Street for some time, Sherlock."

That drew Sherlock's focus back to him. "Why not?"

And now it begins. "He got married, Sherlock."

Sherlock sagged carefully back against the pillows and closed his eyes. He went so still that he didn't even seem to be breathing.

Mycroft could only watch and wait.

Sherlock turned to look at him. "When?" His expression was as flat as his voice.

"About six months ago." 

His jaw tightened. "Anyone I know?"

"No."

"Did they meet after I came back?"

_No, I hired her to keep him alive, and ruined your life in the bargain. You're welcome._

"They met before your return."

"How long before?" 

"Does it matter?"

"How long?"

"A few months."

Sherlock nodded to himself. "The rest can wait." His smile was as empty as his eyes. "I might even remember it all before you come back and save you the trouble." He pressed the button that controlled the bed, lowering the head until he was lying flat. He turned on his side, putting his back to Mycroft.

"Sherlock."

"Go away."

The need to touch his brother was impossible to suppress. He took hold of the blanket that was pooled around Sherlock's knees and pulled it up to his shoulders, resting his hand lightly for just a moment on muscles that were rigid as steel.

He stopped at the nurses' station to tell them he was sending Jared Bahnsen to sit with Sherlock. "He is not to be left alone. Make sure."

He called Jared's mobile as soon as he was out in the corridor, then waited until he arrived, silent with fury, to take watch for the night. 

* * *

The late January afternoon was bright and crisp, but three floors below the wooded countryside of Langley, Virginia, the glow from the bank of monitors above his control panel was the sole illumination. A cool, uniform bluish-green, like being deep underwater. He'd spent so much of the last ten years in this high-tech cavern that normal room lighting made him squint.

The familiar voice in his earpiece was delayed four seconds by the distance, but the grin came through loud and clear. "You should know better than to doubt me by now." 

Brian snorted. "You are one lucky bastard, Jack. I'll give you that."

"I make my own luck, my friend."

"Yeah. With a little help. You know, he could just be on his way to dinner."

"Not this time. He left the hospital in a limo, and my electronic ears tell me that he's going to see his wife. We'll have her location before the night's out, and I'll be back home 24 hours after that. You just keep your eyes on that blip and let me know where it stops."

"You know me, Jack. I live to serve." 

Jack snorted in his ear, and the satellite connection was broken. Brian sat back and laced his fingers behind his head. He'd been working 18 out of every 24 hours on this op for the past two weeks. Jack Leffler was going to owe him a lot more than a fifth of single malt this time. Maybe a lithe redhead to help him drink it.

Two days ago, Jack had called in to report that he'd got Allison Ahrens' current name and location from the second contact he'd interrogated, and they were on their way to pick her up. It had seemed like a done deal, until they discovered that she'd disappeared again. Since she had managed to stay hidden for the past five years in spite of the company's most intense efforts to turn her up, it was no surprise that she'd sensed they were finally closing in. They'd known Valentino's body would tip her off, if she got wind of it. The urgency to reach her before that happened had made them take risks with the second interrogation that they would have avoided if there'd been time to do it right. No matter how this came out, there could be consequences for that.

The only way to find her now would be to let her husband lead them to her, and this was where Jack's fabled luck had come in. Her husband's cell number was conveniently stored on the phone they'd taken from the man who had given them her name, and Brian had been tracking it ever since. The red blip on the monitor in front of him had been moving across London toward Kensington for the past twenty minutes. And then just as Brian was about make a quick trip to the men's room, it stopped.

He grabbed the phone and punched in Jack's number. "He's stationary. 62 Eaton Place, Kensington." He quickly checked the property record for the owner's name, and smiled at the screen. "The ownership records are classified, Jack." The cheer that went up on the other end of the line made him wince and pull the phone away from his ear. 

LUCKY bastard.

* * *

End of chapter 14


	15. Two Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter after this, but the real story I've been telling in all three parts of this triology is resolved in this chapter. The final chapter will be tidying up, and adding a few scenes that popped up and refused to be left out. There will be author's notes at the end of chapter 16. Thanks for reading! ~Ghyll

John recognized the route the driver was taking ten minutes into the ride, and it told him that Mary was apparently staying at Mycroft's Kensington townhouse, presumably with Mycroft present. Two of the least trustworthy human beings he had ever known, occupying the same living space. He half expected to see some dark vortex hovering over the house. It would be laughable, if it wasn't so bloody bizarre.

As far as he had ever known, Mary and Mycroft had never spoken more than a dozen words to each other, yet Mycroft said she'd gone to him for help with her enemies closing in. Given that she'd nearly killed his brother, and that she was the reason his brother had killed Magnussen and got himself exiled, Mary had more reason to expect a bullet than a helping hand from Mycroft. What had even made her think to ask him? And what had made Mycroft agree? Even Sherlock had been worried that Mycroft would retaliate against her, and John had assumed that the reason he hadn't was that Sherlock had somehow persuaded him not to. But Sherlock was in no condition to intervene now, so what was making Mycroft do this? It made no sense at all.

As if he needed more proof that the people in his life were not who he'd thought. 

When the car pulled up to the front entrance, there was a man waiting outside the door. He asked for John's ID before he admitted him, but from what John could tell, he wasn't even armed. A second man greeted him in the foyer and took him to the double doors that led to Mycroft's study. He opened one of the doors for John to enter, then closed it quietly behind him.

Mary was sitting in a red leather chair next to the fireplace with her feet propped up on an ottoman, seeming very much at home amidst the elegantly understated trappings of Mycroft's inner sanctum. She looked up as he approached, and for only the second time since he'd known her, she did not greet him with a smile.

"Mycroft said you were on your way." 

He took the chair facing hers. "How long have you been here?"

"I haven't been home for two days, John, and you didn't even notice."

She had only crossed his mind once, and that had been to wonder how she could sleep with what could be happening to Sherlock. "Did you know they were this close to finding you?"

"No," She held up a hand when he started to respond, "but I knew it was a possibility. I never thought they'd use Sherlock to find me."

"Not even after I told you he'd been taken? It never occurred to you?"

"Not until Mycroft showed up at our door in the middle of the night to bring me here. He told me that a former colleague had been found murdered, and he believed the men who killed him had taken Sherlock. He thought I could give him some names to follow up."

Valentino. So, she _was_ the lead he'd been working. "You should have told me."

"I wanted to, John, but he wouldn't let me."

He glanced pointedly at the phone on the desk a few paces away. "How did he stop you?"

Silence.

"What were you waiting for?"

"What would you have done if I had? Drop the search for Sherlock and come running to protect me? I think we both know better."

"You were sure they were going to kill him, weren't you? And you'd be here to pick up the pieces."

"That's my role, isn't it? Holding you together when he breaks you? No matter how much he hurts you, no matter how hard he tries to keep you with me, you refuse to see it. You still think he killed Magnussen for my benefit. That was for you, John. He saved me for you because he wants us together. Not because it's what I want, but because he knows I'm what you need."

"He's wrong."

He had given her this ammunition himself, and she was still using it. The things he'd told her back when they'd thought Sherlock was dead had been a litany of Sherlock's failings. His inability to feel the pain of others, and his total disregard for John's in particular. But none of it was true. He knew that now. Sherlock was more unsure of their friendship than John had ever been. That was going to change. And there was nothing Mary could say now to stop him. 

She shook her head sadly. "What does he have to do to make you understand? John, he doesn't want this."

"You've done your best to make me believe that, and it almost worked. The last time I tried to tell you I was leaving, we ended up in A&E. Was that a trick, too? Is there anything you won't do to get what you want?" He held up both hands. "No, you've already answered that question. It's exactly what you told Sherlock, right in front of me. With a loaded gun in your hand."

The softness went out of her eyes, and her back straightened. "If you send me off alone, you'll never see your daughter. Does that bother you at all? What do you think Sherlock is going to say about that?"

"You made that choice for all of us a long time ago. You may not have expected your past to catch up with you, but you're the one who created it."

"People change, John. You've changed. You think Sherlock has. But not me."

"From the woman I thought you were when we met? You couldn't possibly be more different from her. But that's the problem, isn't it? You made her up. I fell in love with your bloody alter ego, not you. The real you came out when you shot Sherlock in the chest, and threatened to finish the job if he told me the truth. Actions, Mary. Not words. You haven't changed. You've just dropped the mask."

"If I'm such a monster, why would you let me raise our daughter?"

"You never wanted children. It's probably the only honest thing you ever said to me. If you'd realized you were pregnant before Sherlock told us both at the wedding, you would have corrected your mistake, and I'd never have known. I'm not abandoning my daughter, I'm waiting for her. After the baby is born, you'll weigh the benefits against the costs, and you'll do what you've always done. You'll choose your own best interests."

"You think I'm just going to send her back to you?"

"Yes. Not right away, but you will. You're too practical not to."

She levelled her gaze. "You think you're so pure in all of this, but I'm not the only one who's been lying since the day we met. You were never available. You would have waited for him forever, if you'd had any idea he was still alive. You didn't choose me, you settled for me. There's no bigger lie than that."

"If it matters, I didn't know it was a lie." 

"I almost believe you. It's ironic, isn't it? I love you, you love him, and he doesn't even know the meaning of the word."

"If you really believe that, you don't know him at all."

"And you don't know me. I wasn't going to tell you this, but you need to know the truth. You think I'm the reason Sherlock was being sent on a suicide mission. Well, I'm also the reason he's back. I broke cover to get that video made and broadcast. Michael Valentino, the man who was murdered, was a friend of mine. He created the video broadcast for me, and it got him killed. That's how they found me. He knew it would be dangerous, and so did I. I did it for you, John. I knew what it would do to you if Sherlock died, and I risked everything to stop it from happening. And it worked. So don't tell me I do everything for my own benefit."

"You're lying."

"That righteous indignation tastes a little different now, doesn't it?" 

It tasted like ashes. That was her leverage with Mycroft. He must have known what she'd done, and what it would mean. Keeping his brother alive was all that mattered to him, and if that meant John and Mary would have to leave the country, he would consider that a more than fair trade off. "That's why he's helping you."

She smiled. "Of course. And he's expecting you to come with me. Even Mycroft knows who you belong with, John. And it's not Sherlock."

It wasn't possible that he was this wrong. She had lied to him since they met. If she was telling the truth about the video, she was lying about why she'd done it. She had to be. "You nearly killed him."

"It was a mistake. You know I would do anything to take that back."

_As ever, you see, John, but you do not observe._

The truth was in actions, not words. She had told Sherlock the truth in the instant before she knew she was also telling it to John. 

_There is nothing in this world I would not do to stop that happening._

With a loaded gun in her hand. Thinking they had been alone in that empty house. She would have killed him without a second thought, and that was no mistake.

The ground firmed beneath his feet. "Not this time." He stood up. "I'm staying in London. If Sherlock doesn't want me to come back to Baker Street, I'll live with that. But I think he will."

She held his gaze for a long moment. "I'm sorry for you, John. I truly am." She turned to the fireplace. "Goodbye."

He turned and walked out of the room.

* * *

Bahnsen was sitting next to Sherlock's bed with his back to the door when John started into the room. He quickly got up and met him halfway. "Let's talk outside for a minute."

John hesitated. Sherlock seemed to be asleep, but that didn't mean he was. Bahnsen was waiting for him at the door, all but tapping his foot. Whatever was on his mind apparently couldn't wait. With one more look at Sherlock, John turned and followed him out of the room, back to the bloody corridor. "How long has he been asleep?"

"I don't think he is. I just wanted you to know what you're walking into. When he first woke up and saw me sitting there, he thought he'd just got back from Serbia. As far as he seems to remember, he hasn't seen you in two years."

"Mycroft already told me."

This seemed to surprise him. "And you believe it?"

The sheer scope of it was mind-bending, but the concept was not. How many times had he seen Sherlock draw a blank on some basic bit of primary school data simply because he'd erased it from his mind to make room for more useful information? Given what he'd done to Magnussen to protect Mary, the idea that he would try to erase own memory to save her life was entirely believable. And something had occurred to John on the way over here that made him hope it was true. If Sherlock had really deleted everything since he came back, it would undo a hell of a lot of damage. John would not lie to him, but was it a lie to let the past stay forgotten, knowing the pain it would save him? Save them both?

"I think it's possible, yes."

Bahnsen's eyes hardened. "Mycroft also said you're leaving the country with your wife tomorrow."

From hope to horror in the space of a single breath. "Did he tell Sherlock that?"

"No, but isn't that why you're here? To tell him yourself?"

He'd had no choice about telling Mary before Sherlock, but he was not about to include Bahnsen. "That's really none of your business."

"Actually, it is. Mycroft expects me to stay here and pick up the pieces you leave behind, and I'd appreciate a little advance notice, if that's where we're headed. And for the record, I'm not doing this because Mycroft Holmes asked me to. I'm here because I care what happens to Sherlock. I'm hoping that's your motive as well."

He had owed Mycroft a hard right to the jaw for years. This might just inspire him to pay off that debt. "There won't be any need for your services. Go back to Paris." He started to walk around him, back to Sherlock, but felt a hand close firmly around his bicep.

"He's not as tough as he'd like us to believe. Remember that." He let go of John's arm and walked toward the lift.

Sherlock was more than awake when John returned to the room. He was sitting up, watching the door. His eyes were fixed on John as he walked to the chair and sat down. "Are you all right?" 

Sitting in a hospital bed with his mind and body in tatters, and this was his first question. It took a moment before John could trust his voice. "I think that's my line." It didn't get the smile he'd intended. 

Sherlock's eyes darkened. "The last time I remember seeing you was at my grave. And before that, when I was on the ground and you were--" 

"I know. But I've been okay with it for a long time. Don't--"

"It was the only thing I could do, but it will never be okay." 

It was clear that the distress in Sherlock's voice was real. If he'd been like this when he came back, would it have changed everything that came after? Would John have been able to see through the bluster, if he had put aside his own anger and really looked? "It's all in the past. None of that matters now."

"It matters. How did you find out I was alive?"

"You walked up to my table dressed as a French waiter, and offered me a bottle of champagne." He tried to soften it with a smile.

"You were on a date." 

That jarred him. "You remember that?"

"It was a deduction, John. Waiter, champagne. Date. And I do have a history of interrupting your dates. Did I even try to apologize?"

Over a ticking bomb. "Not at the time, but yes."

"Did you forgive me?" 

He did not have to force a smile this time. "Of course."

"Why?"

John sobered. "Because you're the wisest man I've ever known, and you did the best you could."

He was quiet for a long moment. "You're married. At least something good came out of all this. I'm happy for you."

"It didn't work out." A masterpiece of understatement for the record books.

"What happened?"

"It's complicated. She's going away, and we don't have to talk about it right now. There's something I need to tell you." He felt his pulse start to pound in his throat.

"It's because of me, isn't it?" He was instantly in full deduction mode, zeroed in on John. "That's why you don't want to talk about it. I did something to--"

"Stop. Just stop, Sherlock. The problem started months ago, and yes it had something to do with you." He actually found himself smiling. "It had everything to do with you, in fact, but none of it was your fault. I swear that on my life. On YOUR life." 

Confusion. Doubt. A flicker of something like hope. "I don't understand."

"She's not the person she pretended to be, but she had me completely fooled. I'm not eager to talk about how. Let's just say that I needed to believe her. And then she showed her true colours." In for a penny, in for a pound. "A little more than a month after we were married, she nearly killed you."

That sat Sherlock up straight. "How?"

Not 'why'. Interesting. John stood up. "Can I show you?" He gestured at the hospital gown, reaching but not touching. Sherlock locked eyes with him, and nodded. John untied the gown in back and lowered it to expose the scar on Sherlock's chest. 

Sherlock looked down at the puckered flesh, and touched it gingerly before he looked up at John. "She shot me?"

John tied the gown back in place. "It's a very, very long story. And it's not what I came to talk to you about." And now that he was finally going to say it, the words were knotted in his throat. He started to sit back in his chair, then changed his mind and began to lower himself onto the edge of the bed.

The crease across the bridge of Sherlock's nose made a brief appearance.

John hovered inches above the thin mattress. "Is this all right?"

Hesitation, then a careful smile. "It's fine."

He let his weight settle onto the bed. "You're my best friend. I don't think you know that." He knew for a fact that he didn't, and allowed a moment for the expected reaction.

But it didn't come. Sherlock studied him for a few seconds. "You could do better." One corner of his mouth twitched up.

John chuckled in surprise. "You know, it's starting to occur to me that there've been a few subtle changes in your attitude since the last time we talked. What are they giving you?" He tapped the IV port lightly. "I might have to keep some on hand."

"Maybe some of what I deleted had outlived its usefulness."

It was such an oddly appropriate comment that John eyed him suspiciously. "You'd tell me if you're remembering some of this, wouldn't you? I'd hate to put my own spin on the past and have you sitting there making judgments about my editing."

"I don't want the edited version, John. Just tell me the truth. All of it."

"I will, but so much of it never should have happened. And a lot of what should have happened never did."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "I don't remember you being so... artful."

"Thank you, I think. And for the record, the only person I've been artfully deceiving for the past six years is myself. You're the most important person in my life. I used to believe you knew that, but it's come to my attention that you didn't."

Sherlock's expression was unreadable. "What is your wife's name?"

Textbook Sherlockian diversion. "Soon to be ex-wife. Mary." He held his breath. If the bullet scar hadn't resurrected her memory, her name wasn't likely to do it, but John watched for any sign of recognition.

"She doesn't think much of me, apparently." He glanced down at his chest.

"Mary doesn't think much of anyone but herself." 

Sherlock's expression shifted to one John recognized from scores of interrogations over the years. Neutral. Observing closely. "Are you leaving her because she shot me, or to be with me?"

John hid his shock with a small smile. "I certainly can't accuse you of being subtle." 

"That's not an answer, John."

John refused to let his smile drop. "Sorry, but you just jumped ahead a few pages in this conversation."

"I'm trying to save you a little time."

Deep breath. "I'd rather be with you than anyone, including my wife."

Sherlock went motionless for a very long moment. And then he pulled in a breath, and nodded once. "Good."

The rush of relief made him a little dizzy. "Was it necessary to scare the hell out of me?" 

Sherlock looked surprised. "What did you think I was going to say?" 

"Oh, I don't know. Maybe something about being flattered by my interest and married to your work?"

Sherlock lifted one brow. "So, you are in fact asking me out this time." 

"This time, yes I actually am." 

"And if my memory comes back?" 

It might have mattered, if this 'new' version of Sherlock were really new, but he wasn't. The man John had followed across London rooftops and down blind alleys and anywhere else he might lead for the first two years of their friendship was right here in front of him. The version of him that had come back from Serbia was gone, but the original had never really left. John had just allowed him to slip out of sight for so long that he had almost forgotten who he'd fallen in love with. 

_The man he'd fallen in love with._ Just thinking those words for the first time was so startling that it must have showed on his face.

"John?" Sherlock's eyes were filling with doubt.

"If your memory comes back, it won't change anything."

Sherlock was pulling away from him. He wasn't moving, but it was happening all the same.

Not this time.

John rested his left hand on Sherlock's shoulder, then moved it to the back of his head and leaned in. He brushed his lips over that worried pout. A mere whisper of contact that he could feel all the way to his toes. When John straightened, Sherlock's lips were parted in what seemed equal parts shock and approval. John could not stop smiling. "Does that answer your question?"

Sherlock's eyes warmed with an achingly familiar smile. John had seen this look so many times before that it took his breath away to recognize it now for what it must have always been. It was impossible not to lean in to show him that the message had finally been received, and Sherlock was ready for him this time. He slipped his hand around John's waist to pull him close and hold him there until they had to break the contact just long enough to breathe.

* * * 

After the phone call he had just received from Jared Bahnsen, Mycroft was not surprised to find Mary Watson waiting in his study. 

She was clearly angry, but he did not realize just how angry until she spoke. "I want to leave. Now."

He took the chair facing hers to assess the situation. "May I ask why?"

Her eyes filled with contempt. "As if you didn't know. This is your doing, isn't it? You've got John believing your brother has a heart. Thanks for that. You've managed to destroy three lives. I'm sure it won't keep you up at night, but karma is a bitch. Your turn will come."

He studiously kept his true reaction hidden. Glee in this situation would be highly counterproductive. "I have no doubt that it will, but not for this. I've said nothing to influence his decision. If he's chosen to stay, he did it on his own."

She scoffed at that. "You want me out of here just as much as I want to be gone. At least have the decency to drop the bullshit."

He noted her reversion to an American vulgarity and the absence of her English accent. The gloves were indeed off now. "Very well. The plane is already waiting. I will have the medical personnel brought on board now, in case you should need assistance before you arrive at your final destination."

"How considerate."

It was, but he hadn't expected thanks. "We will leave within the hour."

* * *

The satellite Brian had trained on 62 Eaton Place pinged an alert less than an hour after he'd brought it online. He frowned at his console, and rechecked the settings. Jack had not expected activity this soon, and he was never wrong. That made a malfunction the likely answer. But when he ran through a quick check, everything looked to be working perfectly. And then he studied the display, and grabbed the phone. Things were about to get very interesting very quickly.

"Jack, they're leaving. Black Mercedes sedan heading west. They're already half a click ahead of you."

"Good. That's the distance I want to maintain. Traffic's too light to risk getting any closer until I have to. You just find me a place to pull him over before he gets wherever the hell he's headed."

"Roger that." He ended the call and focused on the image in front of him. 

 

* * *

"Where am I going?"

Mycroft did not look up from his Blackberry. "The plane is waiting at RAF Northolt. We will be there in approximately fifteen minutes."

"You know what I meant. Where am I going?"

"Vancouver. An island in the bay, to be precise. It's a bit isolated, but quite scenic."

"Vancouver, Washington?"

"British Columbia."

She turned back to the window. "Canada." 

"Not your first choice, obviously. But you will be pleased with your legend. It is flawlessly constructed. One of the best I've seen. You will be safe for as long as you wish to be."

"And you'll be keeping an eye on me, I suppose?"

"Only so far as is necessary to ensure that you do not wander off."

"And you're escorting me to the plane for the same reason."

She seemed uncharacteristically chatty. Nerves, perhaps. Misgivings? He slipped the phone into his pocket. "Is there something you'd like to tell me? We don't have much time." 

She smiled bitterly. "There isn't enough time left to scratch the surface of what I'd like to say to you. I'll settle for an apology and a favour. And you can drop the shocked indignation. I'm not asking you to apologize. The apology needs to come from me. I never meant for any of this to happen. I hope Sherlock and John will be better together than they've been apart. They can hardly be worse."

That much, at least, was painfully true. "And the favour?"

"I want you to tell John that the baby isn't his."

She had managed to surprise him again. "Why would I do that?"

"Because he'll never let me go if he thinks I have his daughter. I think it's a very white lie, and I believe you want to tell it."

It would be a very easy lie, in fact. He had wondered about the child's parentage and actually hoped it was not John's. It would never have occurred to him to lie about it, however. "He won't believe me without proof. Sherlock certainly won't, even if John does."

"Fake the DNA. Tell them you checked. I think they will both be more willing to accept it than you might think."

She could be right. "I will consider it."

"Thank you." She turned back to the window.

They were approaching the Ruislip exit when his driver lowered the privacy panel. "Sir, there's a Range Rover directly behind us. He came on a few miles back."

Mycroft turned to look through the rear window. The glare of headlights obscured everything else. "And?"

"He was four cars behind us all the way until just a moment ago. He just passed all four cars to move up to where he is."

Mary turned to look.

Mycroft pressed a button, and a panel in front of him dropped open to reveal an automatic pistol. He extracted it and chambered a round. Mary heard the slide and turned back to him. "Do you have one for me?"

"The driver is armed. It may be nothing."

They were nearly at the exit, and the driver moved to the outside lane to enter the ramp. The Rover followed.

The Mercedes was within fifty yards of the stop sign at the end of the ramp when the headlights behind them swung abruptly to the left and the Rover pulled alongside them. 

Mycroft's driver reacted instantly, and the acceleration pinned them both back against the seat cushions, but the Rover cut across their path just ahead of the left front fender. Metal against metal, but the Rover was half a meter taller than the Mercedes and Mycroft felt the tyres break free of the road as both wheels on the Mercedes' right side slipped onto the grassy stretch between the ramp and the 16 foot drop to the A40 they had just left.

Mycroft's driver tried to get in front of the Rover, but he was outmatched. The Rover pushed back, and the Mercedes began to tip up on the right wheels. It seemed to balance for a moment, and then gravity took over, and they were falling.

Mycroft felt the gun leave his hand a split second before an airbag exploded in his face. His vision greyed out. 

He didn't remember hitting the ground, but they were upside down and no longer moving, hanging from the seat belts. He heard gunfire erupt above them, and he struggled to orient himself. 

Shouting. More shots. And silence.

* * *

Brian watched it all play out in living colour. There was nothing else he could do. It was over in less than a minute.

The backup car had come out of nowhere, but that was his fault. He should have spotted it. It was his job, and his failure to do it had just cost Jack Leffler and his team their lives, or their freedom at the very least. Either way, they were all screwed. Permanently.

And of course the most by-the-book shift commander in the entire company was on duty. If Brian was very lucky, they would let him call his wife before they locked him up.

Markinson answered on the first ring. Brian cleared his throat. "Four down, sir. London."

"What the hell are we doing there? Who's op is it?" 

Here we go. "Off the books, sir."

"Debriefing. Now." The phone banged down in his ear.

He reset the satellite shut off his monitor, and headed for the elevator. 

* * *

The paramedics were there within ten minutes. Mycroft and his driver were banged up, but intact. Mary was not.

They told him that Mary's neck had been fractured in the collision, and nothing could be done for her. They performed an emergency C-section in the ambulance and got the baby breathing, but her chances of reaching the hospital alive were low. The backup team that Mycroft had had following the Mercedes had killed all four of their attackers, and the police had an understandably long list of questions. Mycroft and his driver followed Mary in a second ambulance and left the questions to be answered by the team leader.

He would confirm the status of the child, and then he would go to talk with John. And Sherlock. 

When they reached the A&E, the baby was rushed into the resuscitation room, but the flurry of activity ceased within a few minutes. Mary had been wheeled into an adjoining room, but there was clearly no need to do more than confirm the obvious. 

The triage nurse directed Mycroft to a treatment room to have the abrasions from the airbag tended to, but he refused. The doctor came out of the resuscitation room, looking for someone to accept the news.

"I came in with your patient, Doctor." 

The man walked over to him. "Are you a member of the family?"

"The child's father isn't here. I'm on my way to inform him. Were you able to save the child?"

"I'm sorry, no."

"Thank you. Please have the bodies transferred to Barts. They are now evidence in an official investigation."

The paperwork took an endless thirty minutes during which Mycroft allowed the staff to clean his abrasions simply because he had no more energy to protest.

He called Bahnsen on the way to Royal Free to confirm that John was still there with Sherlock. Bahnsen's glowing report just made Mycroft's mood blacker. "I'm on my way to tell John that his wife and child have been killed."

Bahnsen swore under his breath. "They can't get a break."

"Please try to keep John there without alarming him. I will be there within the hour."

"Don't worry. They're asleep."

Mycroft actually startled. "I'm sorry, what?"

"John crashed on the empty bed next to Sherlock."

Of course. "I will see you in an hour." 

There would be endless paperwork to file. The time and money that had gone into arranging Mary's new identity would have to be justified. He had not been entirely above board, but the circumstances could be explained. He needed to organize his thoughts. But all he could focus on at the moment was damage he was about to inflict yet again on the two people who deserved it least.


	16. Something True

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The final chapter of Something True, and the finale of the triology. There will be an epilogue with some extensive Author's Notes as soon as I catch up on my long-neglected list of non-writing tasks. Thank you so much for coming this far. I hope you'll let me know what you thought of the ride. ~Ghyll

* * *

Mycroft was finding it difficult to prepare for the conversation he was about to have with John Watson. His experience with John's management of grief gave him ample cause for concern. The death of a child was a tragedy from which many people never recovered, and the fact that John had already decided to give up all contact with his daughter added the element of guilt to the equation.

He was even more concerned about the effect it would have on Sherlock who would be hearing of the baby's existence and her death at the same moment. Sherlock would blame himself, and there would be nothing John could say to stop him. That outcome must be avoided, and there was only one action Mycroft could take to prevent it. Ironically, Mary herself had provided it. Mycroft had had no intention of promoting the lie she'd asked him to tell, but the situation was entirely different now. Instead of dissuading John from pursuing her, the lie would now avert some of the worst effects of the disaster she had left behind.

Mycroft judged the risk of Sherlock deducing the lie to be acceptably low. Properly worded, it would not technically be a lie, and his track record for selling carefully worded half truths to Sherlock was overwhelmingly successful. Weighing the potential risk against the benefit, there was no logical alternative.

* * *

Bahnsen was waiting for him just inside the A&E entrance. The crossed-arm stance indicated that Jared was expecting Mycroft to disapprove of what he was about to hear. "John knew something was up. I told him what happened."

"In front of Sherlock?"

"No, but I'm sure John has told him by now."

This was unfortunate, but not unexpected. "Thank you. I trust you won't be returning to Baker Street."

"Still not a fan of subtlety, I see. No, I'm not going back for a few days, but I'm not leaving without saying goodbye. I'll make sure Sherlock knows how to reach me if he needs to, but you can do me the courtesy of losing my mobile number permanently." He walked out of the building without another word.

Mycroft was struck once more by the fierce loyalty Sherlock inspired in his friends. Bahnsen didn't think much of Mycroft, obviously, but the man would never ignore a call that might be about Sherlock, even if it came from Mycroft. Mycroft inspired only fear and grudging respect, both of which were fleeting. He wondered what it might do for his relationship with his brother if that admission were ever shared.

The wall fixture above Sherlock's bed threw a pool of muted light in the immediate area, but the rest of the large room was in shadow. The nurses' station was unmanned. John was sitting on the edge of the bed with his back to the door, and he didn't turn when Mycroft opened it. Sherlock was sitting up, and his focus was entirely on John until Mycroft came into the room. The look he gave his brother over John's head told Mycroft that John had indeed told him what had happened to Mary and his child. 

Mycroft crossed to the foot of the bed. "John, I need to speak with you privately for a moment."

John straightened, and slowly stood up. He turned to Mycroft. "I've already told Sherlock everything. What have you got?"

"The information is quite personal. I suggest we--" 

"Just say it, Mycroft." 

Mycroft looked down for a moment. "Very well. Mary asked me to tell you that you are not the baby's father."

John pulled in a sharp breath. Sherlock eyed Mycroft narrowly. "That would certainly be one way of insuring that John would leave them alone. You're not suggesting that you accepted her statement?"

"She volunteered to have a blood sample taken to confirm it. That is being done as we speak. The results will not be available for at least a week, but I thought you needed to know." He had not yet said anything that wasn't true, and his expression conveyed it.

Sherlock's intense gaze changed slowly to surprise. "You believed her."

"I will withhold judgment until we see the test results, but she would have known how easily a lie could be disproved." 

John's expression hardened. "Who is the father?"

He chose his words carefully. "I didn't ask."

That brought a flicker of suspicion to Sherlock's expression, but John just nodded at the floor. 

"I have asked the doctor to release you. I'll have my driver bring up the clothes I packed for you."

John sank into the chair, staring blankly ahead of himself. Sherlock watched him with concern, then looked up at Mycroft. "We'll meet you outside."

An hour later, Mycroft watched them walk up to the door at Baker Street. It opened just before they reached it, and Mrs Hudson hugged each in turn before she closed it behind them. 

* * *

John walked to his chair and dropped into it without removing his coat. Sherlock stopped a few paces away, searching for the words that had been evading him since the moment Bahnsen had dropped the first bombshell. "I'll make you some tea," was what came out of his mouth instead.

He kept his eyes on John as he switched on the kettle and went through the motions of making tea neither of them would touch. 

"How could I not see this?" John finally said to Sherlock's empty chair.

The kettle had switched off minutes earlier, and the tea mugs were still empty. Sherlock came out to his chair and sat down. "There's nothing I wouldn't do to make this better." He had never meant anything more in his life.

John's gaze was unfocused. "Every word out of her mouth was a lie. She even had you trusting her." He gave Sherlock a long, appraising look. "You did trust her, didn't you? You never suspected the baby was a lie?" An instant later, he realized his mistake. "But you don't even remember her."

"I would have told you if I had any doubts. I don't need my memory to know that."

John smiled sadly. "But you never let yourself have doubts. You forgave her for nearly killing you, Sherlock. You kept pushing me back to her in spite of it. I think you wanted her to be good, and that's all you allowed yourself to see."

It was a glimpse into the time that was missing, and the woman he would likely never recall. What must he have seen in her that could have made him willing to give John up? If he could bring back any of the lost memories, that would be what he would choose. If he had been fooled, she had done it with deliberate skill. John was too honest to ever suspect such deceit in someone he loved, and he had never had a chance against her. She must have recognized that from the start. 

John was looking at him now as if he had read every thought. "She made you trust her, and she made a fool of me. It's not hard to guess which one was the bigger challenge."

"You're not a fool, John. You're too good for us. You always have been."

"You put us all to shame, especially me. You won't let anyone get close enough to see who you really are, but you've been trying to show me for years. I'm glad you don't remember what a bastard I was to you when you came back because it gives me the chance to do it right this time, and I don't give a damn how selfish that sounds. I'm ready to spend the rest of my life trying to make it up to you."

Given the emotional strain John was dealing with, the intelligent response would be to remind him that this was not the time to make such a commitment. The intelligent course would be for Sherlock to smother his own emotions and heed his own advice. He suddenly found it easy to see the idiocy in those thoughts. "You have nothing to apologize for, and I don't need my memory to know that, either. But I am selfish enough to hold you to it for as long as you'll let me."

John looked slightly stunned himself, and then he smiled. "Somehow I expected trumpets."

"Would you settle for a solo violin?"

John's gaze shifted quickly to the music stand, and stayed there for a few seconds. He cleared his throat. "Even better." His voice was rough. When he brought his focus back to Sherlock, the lines of worry and exhaustion bracketed his smile. "I can't remember the last time I got any sleep."

"And I've had far too much."

John snorted at that. "Only you would equate unconsciousness with resting." He dragged himself to his feet. "Come on. We'll kip on your bed for a few hours. I'd use my own, but it seems to have been leased out."

Both parts of that statement confused him for different reasons. John asking to sleep in his bed presented a whole raft of issues he was sure neither of them was ready to address. As for John's bed being 'leased out'... that simply made no sense at all. "Leased out?"

John looked instantly contrite. "I'm an idiot. You don't remember that Bahnsen has been staying here."

"In your room?" The very idea was absurd.

John's smile returned, but there was an edge to it. "Yes, in my room. I didn't think much of the idea, either."

This could explain some of the behaviour he'd observed between John and Bahnsen, although the idea of John being jealous of anyone was simultaneously ridiculous and oddly pleasant. "You take my bed, then. I'm fine on the sofa."

John's eyes narrowed for an instant. "Suit yourself. I'm going to sleep, Sherlock." The emphasis on 'sleep' was clear. He turned and headed for the bedroom. 

Consciously or not, it was a test of the promise. 

Sherlock stood up, and followed him.

* * *

Jared arrived unannounced at Baker Street a few days after the funeral. He decided against using his key, which proved to be a wise choice. John didn't seem especially pleased to see Jared when he came down to answer the bell.

"Sherlock's not here."

"That's okay, I'm just here to pack up my stuff."

John waved him in, and then left him to find his own way.

When Jared came down with his single bag, John was sitting at he kitchen table with a cup of tea. "Do you want some tea? Kettle's still hot." He started to get up.

"Sit. I can get it." Jared set his bag down on one of the empty chairs and grabbed a mug from the cabinet, suddenly aware that he'd somehow managed to irritate John by making his own tea. He took his mug to the table and sat down across from John. "How are you doing?"

"We're good." He took a sip from his mug. "I thought you'd gone back to Paris." 

"I didn't think you'd want me at the services. I'm sorry about your wife and baby, John. I don't think I said that the other night."

John's expression was unreadable. "Thank you."

Another long pause, more awkward than the previous one.

Jared cleared his throat. "You do know I was here to help, and nothing more."

John put down his mug. "Why are you still here?"

"I was hoping to see Sherlock before I left." 

John dug his phone out of his pocket. "I'll call him."

"No. Don't do that." Jared took a breath. "Look, John. I can imagine what you must have thought when you found out I was staying here."

"No, I don't think you can. I've known his brother for long time. He can't surprise me anymore."

That could refer to several things, not the least of which was the proposition Mycroft had made later on. Surely, he hadn't told John. "I took the job because I care what happens to Sherlock. You and I have that in common."

"He's fine."

"I'm sure he is, but I think you still have questions. Let me answer the only one that matters. Sherlock let me stay here to keep his brother out of his hair. He had no idea I was interested in anything else."

John's eyes narrowed. "I think you underestimate his powers of observation."

Jared huffed a laugh. "Underestimate Sherlock? Never. Anyone who does is an idiot." He drained his mug and stood up to put it in the sink. Then he picked up his bag. "If there's ever anything you need, just give me a call. I know what a pain Mycroft can be, but I suspect he'll leave you two alone, at least for a while. If you need me to distract him, just say the word." 

John gave him an odd look, as if he'd just noticed something. "I appreciate that, but I think we'll be okay." He stood up and extended his hand.

Jared shifted the bag to his left hand and took accepted John's firm grip. "Take care, John. Tell Sherlock I said goodbye."

"I will. Have a safe trip." He walked with Jared to the door, then closed it behind him.

When he was waiting for his flight at Heathrow, he started to type a text to Sherlock, then changed his mind and deleted it. 

* * * 

"Sir, John Watson is here to see you."

Mycroft put down his pen, and sat back. He and John had barely spoken to one another at the funeral, and there had been no contact at all in the ensuing two weeks from either John or Sherlock. "You may send him in. Please see that we are not disturbed."

John entered the room a moment later, and sat down in the chair in front of Mycroft's desk. "Sherlock doesn't know I'm here."

This did not surprise him. "How is my brother?"

"Healed, for the most part. He still doesn't remember, if that's what you're asking."

"And you, John?" He had been controlled and quiet at the funeral, with Sherlock constantly at his side. 

John leaned back, elbows on the arms of the chair and hands folded at his waist. "Better than I should be. I don't blame you for what happened, in case you were wondering."

Now, he was surprised. "I am pleased to hear that, John." 

John angled his head, studying him closely. "You've been expecting me to grill you over every detail. I hope you didn't take time away from running the country to come up with plausible explanations. That's not why I'm here."

He had not, but there were a number of discretionary projects that had suffered. "If you are not here to demand information, are you here to impart it?"

"I'm here to give you a chance you probably don't deserve. Your brother remembers you helping him set up his mission to take out Moriarty, and he remembers you saving his life in Serbia. He asked me yesterday if he had done something to piss you off. I think he actually misses you."

Mycroft's brows lifted of their own accord. "I'm afraid Sherlock's distrust of me stems from far more than the events he has deleted."

"Yeah, I know that, but something has definitely changed. If you ever wanted to improve your relationship with him, this is your chance." He straightened, and moved his hands to his knees with a soft slap. "That's all I had to say. The rest is up to you." He stood up.

"If you could spare me another moment, I do have a question."

John resumed his seat, sitting stiffly on the edge of it.

"Thank you." He folded his hands on the desk. "You also have a unique opportunity. You came here to prevent me from trampling my chance to reconcile with Sherlock. I wonder if you are applying the same caution to your own actions with him."

John blinked in surprise, and his eyes crinkled. "Is that your way of asking if my intentions are honourable?"

"Have you asked yourself that question?"

He sobered immediately. "You know why I was with Mary. I will never make a mistake like that again."

"Never is a very long time, John. Situations can change."

"Not in this case." He met Mycroft's gaze and held it.

_He could be the making of my brother, or make him worse than ever._

John Watson had done both, but thankfully in the right order.

Mycroft stood up and extended his hand. "Thank you, John. I will pay a visit to Baker Street very soon."

John gripped his hand briefly and gave it a firm shake. Then he nodded, turned on his heel, and left.

* * *

It was more than a month before Greg called them in on a case, although he had sent texts to Sherlock several times asking when they might be available.

He had chosen a case with enough interest to draw Sherlock to accept, and he'd made sure that this first case included familiar faces. Sally Donovan was given a head's up in advance that she was not to mention anything about Mary's death. She gave Greg a narrow look and reminded him that she was not an idiot.

When Sherlock and John walked onto the scene, it was the first time he had seen them since the funeral. It was like old times, watching Sherlock gather evidence as if he hadn't been away from it for nearly a year. But there was a subtle difference that took Greg several minutes to detect, and even longer to name.

In the very earliest days, John had been as awed by Sherlock as everyone else, but never with the disdain the others used to show. It had always been pure, unmasked admiration. And Sherlock had basked in it shamelessly. All that had changed after the bomber case, and it had grown to the point where not even John's influence could keep Sherlock civil. What Greg was seeing now was completely different.

There was an easy comfort between them now that seemed to extend to everyone around them. Sherlock smiled at Donovan at one point, and she turned a look on Greg that he would have loved to be quick enough to capture on his phone. John must have caught the exchange, going by the way he leaned close to Sherlock and said something that made him glance back at Greg. Being the butt of a shared private joke should have made Greg bristle, and it would have if not for what it told him about what was really going on. Finally. 

Even Sherlock's rapid-fire deductions were different. The content was just as sharp as it had always been, but Sherlock wasn't using that cutting edge as a weapon now. He was still showing off, but for an audience of one. There was a bubble around the two of them, and the rest of the world might as well not exist.

When they left the scene, that was different, too. John used to follow a pace behind, almost trotting to keep up with Sherlock's long strides. Now they walked side by side, and Sherlock's pace matched John's exactly.

He glanced at Donovan and caught her smiling after them. When she saw him watching her, she lifted one eyebrow, but the smile didn't fade.

* * *

"Is that him?"

"Who?" Molly asked, although she had seen John and Sherlock in the mirror over the bar the moment they had walked in together.

Annette was her friend from church, and she had been hearing about Molly's friend Sherlock for years. The amazing consulting detective from the tabloids and his sidekick. "You know who I mean. Call them over. I want to meet him." She slid off her stool.

Molly grabbed Annette's arm and pulled her back. "They don't go to pubs. They must be on a case." 

Annette sat down, but she had her back to the bar and kept her eyes on Sherlock. "The photos don't do him justice."

That was certainly an understatement, especially right now. His cheekbones were reddened by the cold outside, and his curls were perfectly windblown. Breath taking, as always. "Down girl. He's taken."

Annette turned to face her. "How did you let him get away? After all this time?"

"I never said I interested." She took a sip from her pint and faced the mirror to watch him.

Annette rolled her eyes. "Oh, please. Who's the lucky girl?"

Molly smiled at the mirror. "It's never been anyone else. It just took a while for them to get on the same page. I couldn't be happier for them."

Annette scoffed. "Nobody's that noble."

"He is." She realized too late how that sounded, and covered it with a chuckle. "Come on. Let's try that place you keep trying to drag me to. I'm ready for a change." 

Molly looked back as she held the door for Annette. Sherlock caught her eye and smiled.

 

* * *

Martha Hudson winced as she picked gingerly through the array of plastic bags on the bottom shelf of the fridge. Having her boys back was wonderful, but there were still moments when she wanted to shake them both silly. The bags contained nothing suspicious, until she reached the last one toward the back and it sloshed wetly. As she pulled it out for a closer look, she caught a glimpse of something that seemed to be looking back at her, and dropped it quickly into the bin at her feet.

When she had finished with the kitchen, she tidied the sitting room and then took her cleaning supplies to the bathroom. The flat was generally much less work than it had once been, and she knew that John was the reason. Not that he was doing the actual cleaning himself, but he was a decidedly good influence on the one who was. 

She left Sherlock's bedroom for last and headed up the stairs with a fresh set of sheets. Sherlock spent so much time on the sofa that his bed was rarely used for sleeping, but every surface was generally covered with boxes and cartons and lord knew what else. John's room was always the easier task, and she imagined it was his military background that made him so organized. She pushed the door open with her foot, and stopped in her tracks.

The sheets were stripped from the mattress and lying on the floor in a heap. The mattress was not bare, however. It was covered with boxes and cartons, and a few tidy stacks of papers. His wardrobe doors were standing open, and the shelves were bare. 

Her heart sank. He couldn't possibly have moved out without her knowing it. He wouldn't move out. Not now. Hadn't she heard them leave together this morning? She thought so, but she hadn't actually seen them since day before yesterday. John had seemed to be handling the loss of Mary and the baby as well as could be expected, and he had actually seemed better the past few weeks. What if the shock had finally worn off, and he'd decided he had to leave it all behind? 

She went back downstairs, still holding the fresh linens, and opened the door to Sherlock's room.

The curtains were open and sunlight filled a room that was stunningly tidy, but for one notable exception that made her smile and at the same time put a tight lump in her throat.

The bed had clearly been slept in. The duvet was hanging off the end, most of it pooled on the floor. The pillows were resting against each other, but with clear indentations that said each had been used, and the sheets were in an untidy tangle. 

She didn't need to check the closet to know where John's clothes had gone.

She was still smiling when she came down the stairs with an armful of linen for the laundry and saw her boys coming in the front door.

Without a word of explanation, she dropped the sheets and gave them each a tight hug, then picked up her bundle and went into her flat.

* * *  
END


End file.
